The Selfish Sickness
by Positively
Summary: Philosophy major Matthew Williams is trying to understand the concept of personal identity. Repressed business major Alfred Jones is determined not to think about his own. This is the story of their journey to self-awareness, acceptance, and love. USCAN
1. Chapter 1

**The Selfish Sickness  
><strong>by Positively

Warnings: eventual Alfred/Matthew, college AU, slash  
>Includes language, alcohol, romanticized obsession, poor parenting, frank discussion of depression &amp; mental illness &amp; suicide, allusion, philosophical conflict (both internal and external), existential crises, religion, and eventual sex.<p>

There are currently five chapters of this living on my computer; it's probably going to end up around twenty in all.

.

DISCLAIMER: The characters of Axis Powers Hetalia belong to Hidekaz Himaruya.

For my reviewers of **The Whole World is Watching.** I don't think I would have posted this without your encouragement~ HAVE SOME FIC

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><p>"So there's this lunatic that I've moved in with."<p>

"Oh really." Francis' voice over the phone is drawling and luxurious. If Matthew didn't know better, he might think his half-brother to be bored or sarcastic. Instead, because he knows him, Matthew suspects drunkenness. He accurately imagines a thin man, lounging in a thin chair, holding a cigarette in his right hand and a glass of red wine in the left. It can be safely estimated that this is the eighth glass of wine today. The drinking began within the first hour of consciousness, and will continue until the last.

"Yes. I have three suitemates this year. But one sticks out."

"Hm." Matthew imagines him taking a drag. Less of a drag, actually, and more of a greedy suck. For years Francis has sucked cigarettes determinedly, as though he smoked to die rather than to enjoy it. "Is he cute?"

"Not answering that. The two of us share a bathroom. Luckily the rooms are singles, but I fear for my hair products. He seems the pranking sort."

"Ah, yes. You do have such nice hair, _mon frère_. Like mine. Like Mama's. Do you remember much of Mama?"

"Yes, Francis. Of course I do." Here we go.

"That's good. Beautiful, wasn't she? I miss her. Every day. Every day, every day everyday."

_I know_, Matthew thinks. _I wish you wouldn't. _

Francis is a lot like their mother—stupidly romantic, in the worst and deepest of ways, and terribly self-absorbed. Matthew assumes that the grieving is some kind of expression of this. He hopes Francis will move past all the wallowing soon.

Crazy bastard.

There is an uncomfortable silence, since Matthew is unwilling to indulge in Francis' grief-mongering, and Francis is unwilling to partake in any conversation that does not revolve around their mother or himself. They both try to dismiss each other at the same time.

"I ought to—"

"You should—"

A pause.

"You should go make sure your lunatic suitemate has not destroyed anything. Peek at him in the shower for me, will you?"

Matthew almost smiles. _There's_ the Francis he tolerates with difficulty.

"Sorry, Francis, they'd probably kick me out for that. I'll tell Angelique you said hello."

"Yes. Thank you, Matthew…for everything…" His voice trails off meaningfully, as Matthew is sure it is meant to.

"Of course, Francis. I'll talk to you later."

There is a click as the line disconnects.

* * *

><p>Matthew reenters his dorm via the kitchen window.<p>

As he is carefully backing through, right leg over the sill and left foot still brushing the roof, there is a noise from behind him that sounds like a mix between a gasp and choked-off laughter. Matthew hooks his other leg over the sill, overbalances, and barely manages to catch himself on the wall to prevent an embarrassing face-plant. He looks up to see one of his new suitemates staring at him, bent low, one arm holding open the refrigerator door.

"Oh look," drawls Gilbert, quickly turning back to the refrigerator to hide his face. "The philosophy major figured out how to climb up onto the roof. Staked out a good pondering spot yet?"

Matthew isn't sure how to respond, and is saved the trouble by way of Alfred intervention. The Crazy Suitemate exclaims, "We can get onto the roof? That's awesome!" His eyes are bright and enthusiastic in a childish way that Matthew hasn't felt since he was twelve. It makes him feel old and a little resentful. "I'm gonna go check it out. How steep?"

"Uh…not very." Matthew feels like he should explain that his cell phone doesn't get reception in his bedroom, so he went onto the roof to check it there, and it did, and then his brother in Canada called, and. But he waits too long to vocalize. With every passing second, the potential awkwardness of his explanation grows exponentially.

This is where most of Matthew's thoughts end up: trapped in his stupidly shy brain.

"Neeeeeeat!" Alfred gets a running start across the kitchen, brushing past Gilbert and then Matthew, and catapults himself out of the window.

Matthew and Gilbert stare after him for a few seconds.

They look at each other.

"Say. Hypothetically. If someone were to, right now, shut that window and flip the locks, would you know anything about it?"

"About what?" Matthew asks, turning around and quietly closing the still-open fridge door.

Gilbert laughs a little cruelly. "You're not so bad, uh…what was it again?"

_Squeeeeeak._

"Matthew."

_Snap snap._

"Right. You're not so bad for a philosophy major, Matthew."

Gilbert reopens the fridge, grabs a can of Heineken, and retreats to his room.

A few minutes later, Angelique knocks on the apartment door. It takes a few moments for Matthew to hear this over Alfred's frantic banging on the kitchen window. When Angie is let in, she immediately sheds her flip-flops and throws her gaze around the hall, searching for the source of the noise in some concern.

"We've locked Alfred up on the roof," Matthew explains.

"Ah." Angelique looks as though she doesn't quite care, so Matthew leads her into the kitchen. She takes a seat at the dining table as he crosses the room to open the window. Alfred tumbles through, a blur of brown leather and gold, and grasps Matthew's t-shirt for balance. "Which one of you jerks locked me out?" He glares up at Matthew, blue eyes blazing behind glasses, hand unconsciously tugging at the shirt in his fist.

"Not me." Matthew does his best to look innocent. He's pretty good at it.

"Don't look at me," Angelique shows the backs of her dark hands in some kind of gesture of blamelessness. "I just got here."

"Oh, nice to meet you! I'm Alfred F. Jones." Alfred abruptly recovers himself, dropping Matthew's t-shirt and giving a bright smile.

"This is my younger sister, Angelique."

"Angie, please," she sniffs, standing and brushing off her skirt.

"Yes, yes. She's a freshman this year, so her move-in day was last week."

She holds her hand out for Alfred to take. He shakes it, grinning, and calls out, "Gilbert, Eduard, come meet Matthew's cute little sister!"

Eduard emerges from his room bearing a martyred expression that slowly melts when he sees Angelique. "Nice to meet you."

"Wow, is your other suitemate also a blue-eyed blond with glasses?" She turns to Matthew with a delighted expression on her face. He assumes it's because Alfred called her cute—she is so easily flattered.

"Not quite," Gilbert purrs smugly as he saunters into the kitchen. "I have a bit more originality than that."

"Eduard actually has green eyes," Matthew tries to point out. But he is ignored.

"Ah, originality. That's a relief. I was starting to worry I'd stumbled upon some kind of Aryan nerd camp. Obviously I would not be welcomed."

"Excluding me, you pretty much have stumbled upon an Aryan nerd camp. You've got a philosophy major, a computer science major, and a—what are you?"

"Business," says Alfred.

"And a business major who owns eight volumes of D&D."

"Oh? And what about you?"

"Engineer. But not a nerdy one. An awesome one."

"I'm afraid I can't just take your word for it. I've known too many engineers."

"You'll find out, Matthew's little sister."

"Angie."

"Gilbert. Are you two blood-related?"

Eduard and Alfred look embarrassed. They obviously hadn't wanted to bring it up.

"I was adopted. Was it the accent that tipped you off?" Angie's lips are curved in a pleasant smile in her dark face, but her eyes are narrowed and hard. Whatever Eduard and Alfred think, Matthew knows she is not offended by bluntness; she sniffs a challenge in this platinum-haired terror who is almost as tough as she. "I was born in Seychelles, moved to the Congo area, was relocated to New York City and then again to Quebec. Quebec is where I became Matthew's sister."

"That means you're Canadian, Matthew," Alfred whispers as if it is a grand secret between the five of them.

"I was aware."

"I wasn't. That's really neat! Do you speak French?" Matthew is suddenly the subject of Alfred's very intense stare. In the coming year, he will be at its mercy many more times, and he will never completely grow accustomed. It's probably so shocking because Matthew has been ignored by everybody for his whole life, even by his mother and brother and sister. And especially by people as spastically, charismatically _intense_ as Alfred.

"Yeah, and Greek and Latin and German. He's a linguist," Angie states proudly.

"Whoa. That's so cool." Alfred looks deeply impressed, in a wide-eyed seven-year-old sort of way.

"Nerd camp," Gilbert coughs not-so-discreetly.

"Right, well. I'm taking Matthew with me and my roommate for dinner. It was good meeting you all!"

"Same to you," murmurs Eduard politely. Alfred snorts when Gilbert asks, "Especially me, right?"

Matthew ushers her out the door before the brewing argument can get any worse ("I'm more awesome!" "No, I'm more awesome!"). Angie tries leaving her shoes behind, but he scoops them up and playfully smacks her over the head. "Shoes are good."

"Lies and slander."

"Actually, it can't be because slander is defamation—the spread of lies of a _negative_ nature. If I said 'shoes are unfaithful' or 'shoes like child pornography' that would be slander. But since saying 'shoes are good' does not make an untrue claim that may give shoes a _negative_ image—"

"Oh my god, shut up, Nerd Camp."

Matthew smacks her head again. Angie retaliates by trying to trip him at the top of the stairwell. And then, skipping down the stairs, proceeds to humiliate him like so:

ANGIE: So, your roommates are all really good-looking. [_elbow-nudge eyebrow-wiggle_]

MATTHEW: I guess so. [_assumes defensive position_]

ANGIE: Who do _you_ think is the hottest? [_smirk of darkest evil_]

MATTHEW:…

ANGIE: You going to try to woo one of them? How about the tall one, Eduard? He seemed nice. Quiet. Your type, maybe?

MATTHEW: There will be no wooing.

ANGIE: Or Alfred? Mmm, he looks a lot like you. A bit masturbatory, that. Or maybe just narcissistic. Either way, you would be very hot together.

MATTHEW: _There will be no wooing._

ANGIE: Matthew, you're pathetic. I mean, adorable shyness is one thing, but total social withdrawal is quite another. You'll never get a boyfriend if you don't even _try_.

MATTHEW: I'm not having this discussion, _Angelique._

ANGIE: [_attempts a second tripping_]

A bit later, the two of them are outside Angie's dorm. She pauses before swiping her key card. "Oh, yeah. Something you should know about Kat, before you meet her? She's got huge…tracts of land."

* * *

><p>Matthew wearily trudges up the stairs and down the hall to his dorm. Tries to insert the key. Fails, twice. Third try finds his key stuck in the lock, and he tries to jiggle it. Who made keys so complicated? Or, actually, the locking mechanism would be the problem here. If it's a pin-tumbler lock, maybe the driver pins and the key pins are sticking together…<p>

The door suddenly opens inward, and Matthew jumps.

"Isn't this door annoying?"

Matthew's easily-shocked brain is still skipping uselessly on pin-tumbler lock design, so all he can think to respond is, "The lock's fault, actually." It sounds like a squeak.

"Yeah, man, it's sticky or something. Come in." Alfred stands aside. "Eduard went to hang out with a couple of his friends, Gilbert went out to the city, though he didn't say why. Just you and me! How was dinner with Angie?"

Despite Angie's Pythonesque warning, it had been utterly impossible not to stare at Katyusha's chest. Even for a gay man. They had to rest on the table, for Christ's sake. The waiter kept spilling their drinks because he was so distracted with trying not to stare.

"It was nice."

"That's good." Alfred hovers behind Matthew in the entryway of the kitchen. Matthew desperately tries to think of something clever to say, but all that comes to mind are shallow questions about class schedules and professors.

"Sooo…what's it like being a philosophy major?" Matthew can hear Alfred following him into the common room. His footsteps are loud, heavy, have presence. Matthew's are soft and quiet and unassuming; he is light; he is insubstantial. He ponders Alfred's question carefully, as philosophy majors are wont to do.

"Well, if you ask me—and only me, because philosophy majors sort of have to disagree about everything, it's a rule—there are two types of people that this major attracts. There are those who believe in god, and there are nihilists. I mean, they'll tell you that there are people like Epicureans and Realists, but any philosophy that denies the existence of an afterlife is implicitly nihilistic. That's personal opinion, by the way. But, like, Hedonism places emphasis on physical pleasure, and Aestheticism argues that meaning is found in beauty, but the transience of physical pleasure and beauty render both moot, if you ask me, so really there is no such thing as permanent meaning without religion…uh. Anyway. Philosophy classes are like the Forum, and every single debate comes down to the ever-controversial 'Is there an afterlife?', even though the professors hate that." Oh, jeez, he's rambling. Matthew risks a glance at Alfred's face, expecting to see dismissal or disinterest, but is pleasantly surprised to find serious consideration. And those intense eyes, focused all on _Matthew. _It gives him the shivers. He glances back down quickly.

"Why do they hate that? Isn't that, like, the ultimate question? What else could philosophy majors talk about?" Alfred flops gracelessly onto the couch. Matthew hesitates—_are we having a conversation? am I expected to continue? should I sit down or stand awkwardly so I can escape sooner to my room?_—before carefully seating himself a safe distance away.

"Ethics, logic, politics, epistemology…but everyone these days thinks of metaphysics when they think of philosophy. So the only people who are attracted to the major are those interested in metaphysics and those studying for seminary school."

"Ah. Bad combination, that."

"You're telling me."

"Okay, so which are you? Are you religious or a nihilist?"

Matthew hesitates not because he is uncertain of his answer, but because the atmosphere is all wrong, and he is romantic so these things matter. They've been having a relatively relaxed and detached conversation on a couch in front of a television (that's switched off, but it still has mood-destroying powers). This is an Everest of a question, one that is usually only scaled after two people are fast friends, because the answer is contentious and revealing besides. This is a sacred answer. You don't give those things away to acquaintances over living-room pleasantries.

Matthew tries to think of a way to phrase this without sounding like an utter lunatic.

"Uh, sorry, I know that's a really personal question."

_It's the answer that's personal, _Matthew wants to correct automatically. "Thanks." Now it's his turn to ask about Alfred's major, right? Human conversation is a reciprocal thing. Okay. He can do this.

Alfred beats him again. "This question is potentially even more offensive, but what are you going to do after college? I mean, I know you probably get asked that all the time by dicks who think philosophy is useless, but I'm honestly just curious."

It _is_ sort of a touchy thing to ask, but if anyone could ask it with complete, nonjudgmental innocence it would be Spastic Jones.

This is safe, Matthew realizes in surprise. He is completely useless at small talk, as he has demonstrated with consistent social failure for his whole life. People make him nervous, and he never quite knows what to do with his hands, and his thought processes have always been tangential at best and completely random at worst. He is never quite sure what is interesting and relevant to other people on account of the fact that he finds everything interesting and relevant. Like poetry and pin-tumbler lock mechanics.

Alfred, however, seems able and willing to keep up. And not so vapid that any topic of substance must be avoided like the plague.

"I'm planning on going to grad school. After that…I don't really know. I'm okay with not knowing for now, you know?"

"Neat." And the weird thing is, he's sincere.

A pause. Matthew debates whether continuing the conversation after this pause would make Alfred think he only asks out of politeness instead of genuine interest. His neurotic shyness tries to convince him to flee. Matthew pushes past. "What about you?"

"Oh, you know. Taking over the family business. Very dull." Alfred's tone is a stop sign. Matthew has a very few seconds to ponder this before Alfred is abruptly enthusiastic again. "Hey, have you finished applying to grad school?"

"Psh, no. Have you finished applying to business school?"

"Ahaha, no. Good point. Say, want to watch Jeopardy?"

_So this is what Angie means by "You give me conversational whiplash."_

"Okay."

"I should warn you," Alfred says. "I'm going to kick your ass."

They tie.

* * *

><p>At night, Matthew lies on his unfamiliar bed and stares up at his unfamiliar ceiling. He has done this every August for the past four years, and it still disorients him, this sudden change in ceiling-space. The ceiling over one's bed is the subject of much consideration, the visual equivalent of a soundtrack to late-night brainchildren. Matthew always looks forward to visiting Quebec on break, just for the flashbacks and insights provided by his childhood ceiling.<p>

Time for a new ceiling to make its mark on his hippocampus.

He decides to send Angie a text. _I forgot to tell you at dinner: Francis says hello._

The cell phone beeps gleefully: No reception, pitiful human!

There's nothing for it. Matthew will have to get reacquainted with the roof. Hopefully Gilbert won't return from the city and lock him out there for the whole night.

The roof overlooks a courtyard enclosed by three dorms and a dining hall, still and silent at this late hour. During the day, students will pass through on the gray stone walkway—and Matthew's cell phone spot will be in plain sight. Roof-running is explicitly punishable by expulsion. Does this count?

The phone buzzes as Matthew is tucking his knees up to his chest._ how is he doing? _

_Same old same old. I'm sad, pity me._

_i know he's annoyingly melodramatic about it, but he really is sad_

Of course Matthew realizes this. Francis, after all, had a close relationship with Mama, one that had always made Matthew jealous. Did that give Francis extended grieving rights? Maybe. But the scope and extent of the grief isn't healthy, so Matthew refuses to acknowledge the wallowing. Just as good parents refuse to acknowledge a toddler's tantrum. You can't reinforce undesirable behavior.

_I think he misses having you at home, _Matthew replies.

_call him more often this year, okay? i worry about him_

_That's not your job._

_somebody's gotta do it. night, bro_

Angie somehow always makes Matthew feel like the younger sibling.

He is tired, but the balmy August night is too pleasant for him to abandon just yet. He leans back to scan the sky for constellations—Sagittarius, the archer; Lyra, the harp. He wastes a lot of time searching for Perseus before remembering that he won't show up until December. A breeze stirs in his hair, curls tickle his cheeks. The shingles beneath his feet are rough and sturdy and warm, having retained the day's heat. It is dead quiet.

Eventually Matthew notices that he's about to fall asleep, which would lead to either humiliation, expulsion, or waking up in a full-body cast. Climbing back in through the kitchen window is just as awkward as before, but at least this time he doesn't have to worry about—

"Shit! A ghost!"

—an audience.

"D-don't move! I-I'll hit you with my frying pan!"

"Please don't."

A very sheepish silence.

"Oh, uh. Matthew. You were on the roof." Alfred sure does like stating the obvious. Matthew finishes wriggling into the kitchen and turns to face his suitemate.

And is struck dumb.

Alfred isn't wearing a shirt. _Alfred isn't wearing a shirt. _The refrigerator is cracked open, eerie light spilling onto the curves and dips of biceps, pectoral muscles, a perfect flat stomach. Alfred's smooth skin is practically glowing, ivory-pale in the darkness. The planes of his face are sharply defined beneath sleep-mussed hair. His eyes are wide and young without his glasses.

And he is staring straight at Matthew.

(Myopically, of course. But also very intensely.)

Alfred drops the frying pan onto the counter. "Uh, sorry. You just scared me." He is rubbing the back of his neck and smiling so hard his eyes squint. It's ridiculously charming.

Matthew wants to explain that his room gets absolutely no reception, reassure Alfred that he's not some weird roof-creeper, apologize for startling him. But he can't access his vocal chords. He can't even move his mouth.

Alfred is beautiful. And Matthew is _screwed._

* * *

><p>When Alfred wakes up the next morning, he doesn't know where he is. Unfamiliar bed: check. Unfamiliar ceiling: check. Unfamiliar bedmate? Uncheck. Ah well, a guy can wish.<p>

He stumbles into the kitchen to find Matthew sitting at the table, cradling a mug of something. His adorable cherub-curls are pushed to one side of his head, and his eyes are droopy behind round glasses. Sleep hangs about him in a charming way.

"Morning," he whispers, looking down into his mug of whatever.

"Morning. You're up early." His own clumsy voice sounds like it doesn't belong next to Matthew's soft murmur.

"I've always been an early riser. I like watching the sun come up."

Alfred finds this enchanting. How many college students wake up at six in the morning just to see the sunrise? "Peaceful, yeah? I usually wake up with the sun, so. Seven in the summertime, eight in winter. Don't have a choice. What are you drinking?"

"Tea. You're welcome to have some, if you want. There's water in the kettle, but you'll have to heat it up." Alfred wordlessly declines and sits across from his enigmatic suitemate.

Alfred is used to open, straightforward people. His friendly personality has a way of pushing past shyness and unlocking mysterious personalities, so that there are very few acquaintances of his whom he feels like he doesn't know. But he hardly knows anything about Matthew Williams—he is so very difficult to read, and never seems to talk about himself. In fact, he hardly speaks at all, unless one asks the right questions.

There's something about him that makes Alfred want to figure out the right questions to ask, discover the subjects that will make him speak with the impassioned enthusiasm of a child. He wants to make him gesticulate wildly with those slim white hands, for the simple reason that he usually wouldn't. Matthew is a button labeled DO NOT PUSH, one that Alfred can't quite resist.

The sun climbs higher in the sky. Matthew continues to sip tea and read the newspaper and sit quietly. Alfred fidgets and hums and pretends not to watch him.

He makes room for a mental list of what makes Matthew Williams tick. So far, there is philosophy and Jeopardy.

He is determined to map this uncharted territory of Matthewland.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>So it begins. Reviews are love, as I am nearly as insecure in my writing as Matthew is in his social skills. Poor dears that we are. Give us confidence!

Also, if you care: I'm very scatterbrained and sometimes pieces of the story sort of fall out of the main narrative and end up down here. Or, rather, not really parts of the story...I just get uselessly self-indulgent and like to talk about author intention and allusion and foreshadowing and stuff. Think of me as that stupid evil villain who likes to explain himself and his evil plans at inopportune moments. I'm told it ruins everything, but I have my reasons.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Selfish Sickness  
><strong>by Positively

Warnings: eventual Alfred/Matthew, college AU, slash  
>Includes language, alcohol, romanticized obsession, poor parenting, frank discussion of depression &amp; mental illness &amp; suicide, allusion, philosophical conflict (both internal and external), existential crises, religion, and eventual sex.<p>

.

DISCLAIMER: Hidekaz Himaruya owns the characters of Axis Powers Hetalia. John Green is the creator of the book _Looking for Alaska, _and the concept of the labyrinth as life's suffering. Heavily referenced! Go read it.

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* * *

><p>The week before classes feels to Matthew as though it lasts five years. He spends a lot of time in his room with the door shut, organizing his bookshelf and staring up at the ceiling. He sneaks around the apartment, tiptoes across the hall to the bathroom.<p>

He listens—something he has always been pretty good at—and hears when Eduard leaves for Toris' and Raivis' dorm room. He hears when Gilbert wakes up at noon to shower and leave-presumably for lunch with city friends. He hears Alfred in the kitchen eating junk food, or watching cartoons in the common room, or banging on his door: "Hey, wanna play Halo? Do they have that in Canada?"

Sometimes Matthew watches his suitemates interact: Eduard and Gilbert have some kind of mutual "we're cool but not tight" agreement thing, while Alfred and Gilbert have semi-affectionate "I hate you let's compete over everything" warfare/broship. Alfred and Eduard have nerdfights, sometimes, which Matthew discovered when he walked into the kitchen just in time to hear:

"Einstein was _nothing_ without Newton!" Eduard looked as close to flustered as he ever got.

"Einstein had applications, though. He did all sorts of shit, like general and specific relativity, and quantized vibrations, and he's the father of the atomic bomb—"

Eduard made some kind of scandalized harrumph. "Are you seriously trying to tell me that's a good thing? Besides, where the hell would he have come up with any of that had Isaac Newton not _invented Calculus three hundred years back_?"

"Okay, sure, but all Newton did was lay the groundwork. Einstein made it _mean_ something—"

"Einstein was_ standing on the shoulders of giants_! If his accomplishments are that impressive, then it's only because—you know what? I can't talk to you about this. I am seriously, just—no."

Matthew had quietly taken his lunch back to his bedroom.

Alfred likes to eat breakfast with Matthew in the kitchen as the sun rises. For lunch, he goes to the dining hall and comes back with McDonald's Styrofoam cups that he leaves lying around everywhere, much to Matthew's dismay. Sometimes he eats whatever Matthew makes for dinner—"I'm not freeloading, am I?" and Matthew is too timid to say, "Yes, yes you are"—and sometimes he goes to McDonald's again.

He tells stories about people he knows, people he eats with, people he's partied with. Matthew has noticed that he never calls them friends. He usually tries not to read too much into minutiae, but can't help but get the impression that Alfred is the type to make friendly acquaintances, not friends.

Also, Alfred occasionally walks around without a shirt on and it's slowly driving Matthew insane.

* * *

><p><em>Angie. It's awful. He sleeps shirtless.<em>

Matthew is in the library the day before classes, having narrowly escaped the visitation of Gilbert's good friends Antonio and Lovino. While Antonio is a calm sort of guy, Lovino is on the boisterous, belligerent side. To put it lightly. Having him in the same room as Alfred is nothing short of a nightmare.

Now Matthew is reflecting on (read: obsessing over) that night he came wriggling through the window and Alfred first stood before him in shirtless glory. He remembers staring like an idiot, and not saying anything. Alfred must think him a weird, silent freak. Though the awkward silence was arguably better than speaking his thoughts, the ones that went like "Unf," or "Fleargfff," or "I want you entirely."

_shirtless? SCORE_

A second later: _wait which one_

_Alfred. His torso is perfect._

_repeat: SCORE_

_I'm gonna go drown myself._

Angie calls a moment later.

"Alright, little brother," she sighs, ignoring the fact that Matthew is actually her big brother, "tell me why this is such a bad thing."

"Hang on a sec, I need to get out of the library," he whispers. He leaves the building and finds a bench in the sunlit courtyard. If he gets sunburned, he is totally going to blame her. "It's torture. Eduard's best friends are roommates in the building right next to ours, and he spends all his time over there. And Gilbert actually has a social life, so he's rarely around. It's just the two of us, and Alfred always wants to hang out and watch movies together, and he says stupid things that make me want to punch him and then kiss his face off. I'm going to snap and do it one of these days. You'll see."

"Kiss his face off? That's a great deal more aggressive than I usually associate with you." She pauses thoughtfully. "Then again. You did have that thing, with the ice-hockey gang."

Why does she always have to bring that up? "For god's sake, it was not a _gang_, Angie. We were just a hockey team! We never did any drugs—I mean, besides weed, but whatever—and those cops had no business—stupid freaking busybody neighbors, calling us _gangs_—"

"Right. And how many bones did you break, in your illustrious career?"

"Just my nose and arm. That's pretty mild for an ice hockey team, so obviously their theory about us being purposefully violent was _wrong_."

"Actually, I was talking about other people's bones."

Matthew had lost count, honestly. "None at all. I can't believe you would accuse me of something like that, Angie. And to imply that it was purposeful…"

It was.

"Whatever, Captain Williams. We were talking about Alfred?"

He sighs. "We have a theology class together. Judaism-Christianity-Islam on Tuesday-Thursday. He's probably going to sit next to me and ask to do homework together…"

"Sounds like maybe he likes you, too!"

"I don't like _him_," Matthew insists. "I like his torso and his symmetrical facial structure. As a person I find him obnoxious and rude. And childish. That's why I think he'll want to sit next to me, and do homework together, and probably copy my answers on everything, and antagonize the professor who will hate me by extension."

"Come on, Matt. Stop worrying so much. We can go out for dinner if it'll make you feel better."

* * *

><p>"Why business?"<p>

"Huh?" Alfred looks up from the plate of spaghetti he's currently wolfing down. Matthew tries not to be warmed by the fact that Alfred likes his food. He tries not to be charmed by the spot of red sauce at the corner of his mouth. He tries not to blush as Alfred makes eye contact.

He fails.

Alfred is so annoying.

"I said, uh, why business? I saw your schedule. You're in the advanced biology and chemistry classes. You have a poster of the periodic table of the elements in your bedroom. You were arguing with Eduard about Newton earlier-"

"You heard that?"

"I was there."

"Oh. Right."

A pause.

"Really?"

Matthew just nods.

"Oh. Well. I guess I do like science a lot. Especially biology."

He sets a considering gaze on Matthew. And then he's off, hands flitting through the air, fork dripping sauce. "Because, like, it makes sense, okay? English and philosophy and stuff is cool and all, but it's all based on human perception, human precedent, human history. Humans are faulty. Science just _is, _it doesn't give a damn what humans are or do or write or say. Or think. Thoughts are all clouded up with emotions and social conditioning and genetics. We're so limited. But science is absolute and infinite, and if we can learn to overcome our faulty cognition, we can _harness_ science, and do useful things, and work with nature to make life better…"

Matthew smiles uncomfortably. Who knew that Alfred F. Jones could wax poetic about the glory of science?

"Anyway, I used to want to be a doctor and save lives. People told me I had a hero complex, but I think that's just an excuse they use to make themselves feel better about being selfish." Alfred returns to his spaghetti.

"So why business?"

A short silence, a darkened brow, and Matthew worries that he's dug too deep—that he's finally offended the ever-cheerful Alfred. "Well, it's what my father expects, I guess. He has traditional ideas, you know, about keeping the business in the family. My older brother should have—but he doesn't—he's not—well, one of us has to do it," he finishes lamely. "And a doctor is respectable and all, but my motivation is kinda silly. I mean, I just want to be the hero. Pretty stupid, right?" A self-deprecating laugh.

This contradicts everything Matthew thinks he knows about Alfred. Alfred, who eats nothing but McDonald's and table scraps; Alfred, who boasts about his sexual conquests and his D&D collection alike; Alfred, who is loud and obnoxious and beautiful and annoying. Why on earth should he give a damn what anybody else wants him to do?

_Yeah, it is pretty stupid. That you're letting your father decide your future. It's not his life, is it? _Alfred is so incredibly vivacious; it is inconceivable that he ever stifled his own will to live for another's.

It should be noted that Matthew's parents have never expected anything of him.

"You know, if you took the MCAT in October and applied to a few medical schools, you could probably get in."

Alfred shakes his head. "With a business degree? And like I said, being a doctor was a childhood pipedream. Before that I wanted to be a fireman, and before that a superhero, spandex and all." Matthew tries very hard not to imagine the spandex and all. "It was just a silly phase. My life is set and stable now, you know? I don't want to go to medical school anymore."

"There are plenty of non-biology degree medical students. As long as you have the core science classes—"

"Really, Matthew. I'm ha…okay with taking over the family business. Say, want to watch Jeopardy?"

* * *

><p>All in all, Matthew is pretty sure that senior year is going to be his easiest yet. Academically speaking. Biology class and senior thesis aside, his only issues revolve around his brother and an annoying(ly attractive) suitemate. Could be worse, right? It has been worse. Life is good.<p>

He tells himself this over and over and over. Life is good. Life is good. Affirmations, they're called. Say something often enough and maybe you'll believe it, even as you understand that it doesn't really matter. Look at the bright side, or go mad.

All in all, Matthew is actually very ordinary for a philosopher.

* * *

><p>As a child, Matthew suffered from severe and crippling bouts of vertigo. He would lie flat on his bed, the room revolving slowly around his stationary body. If he moved his head—even just a little bit—he would vomit. This would only disorient him further, leading to a vicious cycle and a pathological fear of motion.<p>

If his mother was in the mood, she would hover around his bed and cater to his every whim. Or, if she was in the other mood, the sad and cold and unreachable mood, the one that Francis had permanently affected in high school, Matthew would endure his terrifying ocean of disoriented nausea alone.

Madame Bonnefoy, despite being disdainful (or, more likely, afraid) of doctors, eventually grew concerned enough to take Matthew to a pediatrician. The pediatrician sent them to a diagnostician, who sent them an ear nose and throat doctor, who said that Matthew's ears were just especially prone to infection. Something about shallow ear canals and inflammation caused the fluid in his inner ears to build up, triggering the dizzy spells and the nausea and the horrible, horrible spinning sensation. Supposedly Matthew's ear canal would become steeper as he grew older, and the infections would taper off and eventually disappear.

The doctor's prediction had seemed to come true: after about the age of nine, the infections gradually died away. The last one he'd had was when he was fourteen.

So Matthew is understandably taken by surprise when, climbing the stairwell to his dorm after Biology, he is struck with a wave of dizziness that brings him to his knees.

At first he has no idea what's going on; one second he's looking at a flyer on the wall for some drama production, and the next he's staring at the gray of the concrete stair. And it is getting closer. Then comes the familiar swooping feeling, and Matthew embraces it like a homicidal aunt whom he hasn't seen in six years.

After practically crawling up the stairs and staggering down the hall to his room, he begins to feel the nausea swell in the back of his throat. Sweat breaks out on his forehead. The door waves back and forth before his eyes.

Two hours later, Alfred finds him collapsed at the kitchen table.

"Hey, Matthew, are you alright?"

Matthew makes the mistake of trying to look at Alfred.

"Whoa, man, can I get you a bowl or something?"

After he finishes wretching emptily, Matthew gingerly puts his head back in his hands. "No," he murmurs as the room rocks dizzily under his feet. "I've already vomited up everything in my system."

"Oh god, are you sick? Should I take you to the nurse? I can carry you there, or to your bedroom—"

"No, please," Matthew interrupts, looking green just thinking about it. "No movement. That makes it worse."

"Makes what worse? What's wrong? What can I do?"

Matthew doesn't know if he should find this annoying or sweet. He remains neutral by telling the truth. "It happened a lot as a kid. It's just vertigo. It'll pass."

"What can I do? Do you want me to sit with you?"

Matthew considers the offer. He can hear the clock ticking, the hum of the refrigerator, the occasional birdsong out the window. Eduard and Gilbert are still in class. It's two in the afternoon, the best time for naps in Matthew's opinion, and despite his overwhelming dizziness he finds the whole kitchen thing pretty peaceful. It's odd, because one would think that being away from home would make it scarier, but no. He feels like he can just take this in stride.

So when Alfred offers to sit by him like a concerned parent or brother or lover, Matthew doesn't actually care if he does.

Then he thinks of an unpleasant job that he himself will never be able to do in this condition. "I hate to ask…" Matthew hesitates. This is unbearably humiliating.

"Go ahead, go ahead! I want to help."

Matthew imagines an eager golden retriever, wiggling its tail. _I can be a good dog, I can be a good dog! Woof!_

"Can you clean the sink? I turned on the faucet after I puked, but it's just not sanitary…"

"Yeah, okay." Alfred's voice grows surprisingly soft. Maybe fond, maybe nurturing. Matthew isn't quite sure how to place it, but it makes his chest feel warm.

There are a few peaceful minutes during which Alfred breaks out the entirety of their cleaning products and scrubs down the counter. Matthew can hear the swishing noise of spray bottles and the _scritch scritch_ of scrubbing bristles. Alfred is uncharacteristically silent. When the cleaning stops, Matthew hears the soft sounds of Alfred's approach. Looking at his face—which has become startlingly close, when did that happen?—makes the room pitch and yaw. It's too much. He has to close his eyes.

Matthew hears the chair next to him scrape back and groan as Alfred settles his weight. "Do you mind if I sit with you?" His voice is still soft and gentle, and Matthew just knows that if he could focus his eyes right now, he would see Alfred wearing an annoyingly earnest expression.

Afraid to nod, Matthew whispers, "Sure."

"Does this help?" Suddenly there is a warm hand on Matthew's back, rubbing soft circles against his shoulder blades and spine. At first it makes him dizzier, this extra stimulation of which his mind is forced to make sense. But soon the hand gives Matthew an anchor, an axis around which his spinning world can secure itself.

"Yes. Your bedside manner is impeccable, Doctor Jones."

The hand pauses, and then begins again even gentler than before.

Matthew wakes up at five in the evening, feeling extremely hungry and thirsty. He very, very carefully moves his head from side to side: no vomiting. There is a glass of water on his bedside table. The sheets are tucked around his chin, his stuffed bear Kumajirou under his arms.

Humiliatingly, he can't stop smiling for the rest of the night.

* * *

><p>Alfred, of course, sits next to Matthew every day they have JCI Theology. He hopes that they can pass notes and do homework together after class. Maybe he'll get to know more of the enigmatic Matthew Williams.<p>

So far he has determined that Matthew is intelligent, knowledgeable, very quiet. Deep, if his major is any indication. He is maybe insecure, somewhat socially awkward, very polite. Matthew moves in small precise ways, avoiding eyes, speaking softly. He has an awful lot to say about philosophy, and random trivia facts brought up on Jeopardy, but so far not much else.

He is also possibly the most fascinating person Alfred has encountered during his three years at university.

But their conversation about medical school has unsettled Alfred. He has never even considered defying his father's…not orders, really, but expectations. After all, it isn't as though his older brother can take over the business. This way Arthur doesn't have to suffer their father's wrath, and their father doesn't have to sell his company when he retires. Alfred is doing everyone a favor with this, right?

Except himself.

But Alfred has never been selfish.

Just knowing that the option is there blows Alfred's mind. It feels a little like when he learned in Calculus that he could find the volume of a cross-sectioned Cartesian graph. Who knew that there was another dimension hiding in that coordinate plane? How had he never even realized it?

How many more there could be?

Alfred isn't even dragged from his reverie when the professor begins to lecture. It takes Matthew's elbow in his ribs to get him to pay even the slightest attention. The words "The Origin of Religion" are written across the chalkboard.

"But having a set of rules is a reward in and of itself, right? These people in the desert were looking for guidance, for instruction, for someone to tell them what to do."

Alfred thinks of needing his father to tell him what to do, needing direction, needing.

A boy's hand shoots up; he mentions divine inspiration. No way did man make God. The Bible is divinely inspired because the Bible says that the Bible is divinely inspired. Circular reasoning works because circular reasoning works because circular reasoning works…

Matthew is writing way to enthusiastically to just be taking notes, so Alfred respectfully leans over and reads aloud, "'They would follow a mirage and drink the sand…' What does that mean?"

Matthew makes a shushing gesture and continues to write. Alfred feels neglected.

Towards the end of the lecture, Dr. Adnan addresses the matter of "the need for humans to be infinite." "The last words of Simon Bolivar are said to be, 'Damn it, how will I ever get out of this labyrinth? A book called _Looking for Alaska_ proposed that religion was born as a way to answer this question. What do you think? What is the labyrinth? Discuss."

_I've read that book, _writes Matthew on a corner of his notebook.

Alfred is curious. _What's the answer?_

_What's the question or what's the answer? _Matthew's handwriting looks like typefont next to Alfred's scrawl. Alfred is embarrassed.

_Both_

_Labyrinth=life, or maybe mortality, or maybe suffering._

_And to get out of it?_

_Straight & Fast_

Alfred tries to make sense of this.

_Suicide, _Matthew clarifies.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> When I say that the concept of the labyrinth is heavily referenced, I mean it. You should go read _Looking for Alaska_, fr srs. It's a good book.

So, fellow Calculus students. Didn't it BLOW YOUR FUCKING MIND when you discovered that you could find the volume of a function on a Cartesian plane? What's the second integral? Is that time? Does that even make sense? Am I in parametric mode now? Shit IDEK.

/secretly loves math

Please review!


	3. Chapter 3

**The Selfish Sickness  
><strong>by Positively

Warnings: eventual Alfred/Matthew, college AU, slash  
>Includes language, alcohol, romanticized obsession, poor parenting, frank discussion of depression &amp; mental illness &amp; suicide, allusion, philosophical conflict (both internal and external), existential crises, religion, and eventual sex.<p>

.

DISCLAIMER: Hidekaz Himaruya owns the characters of Axis Powers Hetalia. Tom Stoppard owns _Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, _the crazy existentialist play from which this particular question game originates. Heavily referenced! Go read it.

.  
>.<p>

* * *

><p>Even though Matthew has attended university in the United States for three years, it surprises him how long summer lasts. It's mid-September and the leaves on the campus trees are still green and healthy; the sun sets past eight and rises just eight hours later. In Canada, he thinks, these leaves would be dead. In Canada, this sun would be gone.<p>

His decision to attend graduate school in the United States is looking better and better.

Even if he will miss the ice hockey.

Not for the carnage, of course. All of that was completely unintentional, whatever the police records say.

Biology is tough, but Alfred helps him out when they eat dinner together. Matthew had been too shy to ask, especially after that vomiting incident, but luckily the pernicious hoser was nosy enough to find out on his own. "Dude, I was looking through your binders for our JCI assignment, and I saw that you got a C on your biology test. I could help you out, yeah? Mitosis is awesome! I have a song!"

Matthew is actually pretty humiliated to be tutored by Alfred F. Jones. Of course the man is brilliant in science, but his personality is so stereotypically airhead-ish that it's a big blow to the Canadian's pride. Mostly it's because Matthew is jealous of his outgoing attitude and general likeability. It's always infuriating to a socially disadvantaged person when someone like Alfred is academically superior in some way. It's like, why did you take away the one thing I had on you?

And then Alfred cheerfully confesses that he's already failing French—"Seriously? It's only September, Alfred"—and Matthew feels obligated to return the favor.

It does not go smoothly.

"Par-lay voos Fre—Fran—chez?"

"Do you pay attention to your professor? At all?"

"Non?"

"Start. Please. I refuse to help you with your grammar until your pronunciation improves. Because it kills my soul to hear you butcher my language so gruesomely." This cracks Alfred up, and Matthew is resentful. His quiet, squeaky voice and timid nature make it hard for people to take him seriously, especially when he's angry. But later Matthew will remember how difficult it usually is for him to be openly critical of anyone but his family. That the closest he ever comes to having a friend is a person whom he can comfortably insult aloud.

After a few weeks under Matthew's tutelage, Alfred's pronunciation grows slightly better. When Matthew tells him this, Alfred replies "Murr-cee bo-coop."

It's a start.

* * *

><p>"Antonio is going to have a party next week, and you're all invited," Gilbert announces to Alfred, Matthew, and Eduard.<p>

Eduard continues to fiddle with his laptop. Matthew turns a page in his book. Alfred bounces up and down on the couch (jostling Matthew unpleasantly) and asks, "Is it a costume party? 'Cause I love those. Masquerade! Ooh, that sounds fun!"

"Hell no! What do you think we are, some kind of dumbass sorority? There'll be music and food and alcohol. And chicks. That's all you need for a party."

"Hm. Okay. I'll be there."

"Eduard?"

"No, thank you. I'll lose my scholarship if there's a bust."

"Fair enough, pussy. Birdie?"

It takes Matthew a second to realize that he's being addressed. "Uh…no. I have a biology test next week. I need to study."

"It's Friday night, after classes."

"Then I'll be recovering from the test."

Alfred pouts. "Don't be that way, Matthew. Come have fun with us! Nobody likes a wet blanket." He leans in, uncomfortably close.

Reddening, Matthew pushes Alfred's face to the side. "Really, parties aren't for me. I appreciate the offer, though."

Gilbert ruffles his hair—"Our little hermit"—and leaves the room. Matthew fights the guilt and doubt that always twist his gut when he refuses an offer to socialize. _Wait, no, maybe it wouldn't be so bad, maybe I could get noticed, make friends, be normal. _

But there isn't much point to any of that, is there?

Besides, he already said no.

* * *

><p>It's late September now, and the deadline to sign up for the MCAT is fast approaching. Matthew redoubles his efforts to convince Alfred to at least try it. "Just to have the option. What's the harm in that?"<p>

"Seventy-five dollars out of my bank account. And I'm not going to be a doctor, okay?"

Alfred is genuinely annoyed by the wheedling, which should make Matthew feel bad but actually just makes him more determined. If they ever watch television together, Matthew makes sure to look for _Scrubs_ or _House_ or _ER_. It's not very subtle, but Alfred sort of needs the heavy-handedness.

Matthew stops just short of singing "Listen to Your Heart."

Despite the considerable strain presented by Matthew's shyness and their disagreement about Alfred's future, the two continue to grow closer. Breakfast has already become a sacred tradition. "There's just something about watching the sunrise, yeah?"

"_Mysterium tremendum et fascinans,_" Matthew says softly.

"The...tremendous and fascinating mystery?"

"Ooh, he knows Latin."

"Yeah, well, I took it for three years. What does it mean?"

"You had it right."

"No, that's its translation. What does it _mean_?"

Matthew approves of this sentiment, and wishes he knew how to say so. "The Romans used it to describe that mixture of fear and awe you get when you're on the brink of something new and frightening, something much bigger than yourself. Like, when you see the skyline of a city, or the world from the top of a mountain, or when you're driving up a huge hill and just about to crest it..." _The feeling I get when you're around. _"Just...something about being awake in the small hours of the morning, watching the sunrise."

"Yeah. It's like...a squirmy feeling in your stomach. Like anxiety, but not as unpleasant. Or maybe even more unpleasant, but mixed with that entrancement, that _fascinans_. It's like a religious experience, right? Maybe this is why so many disparate cultures worshiped the sun."

"Mm, solar deities. I had a History of Religion class last year, and it seems like everybody's got one. Even Christianity's got the Son."

"Ba-dum-dum-chaa."

"No, I wasn't being punny. There's actually some astrological significance to the death and resurrection after three days…"

And so their friendship marches onward. Once Alfred mentions that he's never met a better conversationalist, which bewilders the Canadian into silence. Since when have his philosophical and trivial-fact ramblings ever interested anyone save himself? How very strange.

It does nothing to discourage this troubling crush Matthew has developed.

_Why am I doing this to myself?_ Before it had been an acceptable "_day_-um, that's one fine piece of ass" attitude, but now Matthew is becoming legitimately attracted to the person inside. _Setting yourself up for disappointment, pathetic moron, _he tells himself repeatedly. But Alfred is awfully good-looking, and pretty smart, and fun to be around. If a little insensitive. If a lot annoying.

_Don't fall, don't fall, don't fall._ But he has no choice.

* * *

><p>Madame Bonnefoy was born in Paris, France several years earlier than she would have ever dared admit. Her parents were members of the humble proletariat, but Marianne was dissatisfied with their simple lifestyle. From the age of seven, she dreamed of escaping the ennui of middle-class Paris to the runways, the cafés, the university.<p>

Her parents were bewildered by their romantic, wistful daughter and attempted to discourage her from her dreams of opulence and adventure. Marianne retaliated by making friends with "the wrong sort of people," the dilettantes, who smoked and drank and snorted to prove how jaded they were. Marianne found them dull but intellectual, and hoped that their profoundness would rub off on her.

Soon she realized that all of them were acting at being profound—they were just like her, pretending to care about things that everyone else pretended to care about—and thus she left them to seek out the more glamorous party crowd.

This was how her first son was conceived.

Marianne had no idea of who the father might be, and so the child was born Francis Bonnefoy. Her parents, devout Catholics, were horrified by their daughter's behavior; and although they certainly had no intention of supporting an abortion, they did kick Marianne out of their household. She found a middle-class job and for five years was forced into living her greatest fear: settling.

When Francis reached the age of elementary school, Marianne decided to educate the boy herself. She quit her job and packed their belongings into two duffel bags: clothing, pens, pocketknife, eyeglasses, makeup, a pair of earrings. She and Francis lived on the road, essentially, traveling by train, sleeping in hostels and hotels and sometimes park benches. Marianne used her beauty to convince men to give them a place to stay. Francis learned street-smarts, and history, and very basic math, and how to read and write in French and English. His bedtime stories were Camus and Sartre paperbacks, relics from his mother's dilettante days.

In Marianne's mind, it was terribly romantic.

But she was easily bored and spontaneous to the extreme, so for whatever reason she decided to move to Quebec when Francis was ten years old. It was here that she met Michael Williams, Matthew's father.

* * *

><p>When Matthew dials Francis' cell phone number, he half-hopes that the call will go straight to voicemail.<p>

Angie had guilted him into this—"He used to complain about how distant you were, Matthew; with me gone, too, it'll be infinitely worse"—and so he cautiously crawls onto the roof under the cover of darkness. In the courtyard below, he can occasionally make out the comings and goings of students, returning from a late class or departing to an early party.

They laugh and talk about things Matthew can't hear, and it all seems so utterly insignificant to him, from up high on his rooftop.

"_Oui_?"

"Hello, Francis. It's me."

"Ah, Matthew! How lovely to speak with you. How have your classes been going? And what of your sexy suitemates?"

"They aren't sexy."

"Angie tells me otherwise. Describe Alfred to me." Francis is in a good mood. _Better coy than self-pitying, _Matthew thinks fervently.

"He's hard to get along with. He's even harder to hate."

"I commend your rhetoric, but I was looking for physical description. Does he have a nice ass?"

Matthew changes the subject without finesse. "My classes are going well. Even biology."

"Excellent, lovely. Have any of your professors taught you something worthwhile?"

"I'm not sure yet. I think I've chosen my thesis, though."

"Go on."

"To find true self-awareness, must one look inward or outward?"

"And your position?"

"Inward, of course."

"J'approuve! You know, I have some very good books to recommend to you that would help. You know the old standbys, of course, but Chekhov was surprisingly fond of introspection…" Academic advice is how Francis makes up for his behavior for the past seven years. It will never be enough, especially considering his continued self-absorption and the endless consequences thereof. But Matthew is forgiving, and they are philosophically like-minded enough to maintain a shaky friendship.

They manage a few minutes of passionate literary reviews and recommendations—intellectualism as a coping mechanism is one of several things they both inherited from their mother—before Francis starts to go over all melancholy and Matthew pretends to have other things to do.

He is still watching the starstruck summer sky when Alfred finds him on the roof. They exchange no words, but Matthew pats the space next to him. After a few minutes of companionable silence, Matthew asks, "Want to play a word game that my mother taught me? Or, well, one she taught my brother who then taught me?"

"Okay, how do you play?"

"Would you like me to show you?"

"Yes."

"Foul, that's a statement. One-nil. Do you understand yet?"

"Um, no. Explain it."

"We're trying to have a conversation entirely made up of questions. No statements, repetitions, non sequiturs, or rhetoricals. Ready?"

"Are you ready?"

"What did you say?"

"Are you ready?" Alfred repeats impatiently, falling for the oldest trick in the book.

"Foul, no repetitions. That's two-nil to Matthew."

"What! That's unfair! You tricked me, and the first point you hadn't even explained the rules yet."

"Statement. Three-nil to Matthew. Why are you so bad at this?"

"Why are you being so unfair?"

"Okay, okay, I was kidding. We'll start over. You ask."

"Whose turn?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do you care?"

"How can you ask that?"

"What's your favorite color?"

"Non sequitur. That's one point to me," Matthew smiles sweetly.

"What do the points add up to?"

"Were you addressing me?"

"Who?"

Matthew resists the urge to shout, _I'm Matthew, dammit!_ He still bears the scars from a preschool identity crisis. "Why do you ask?"

"Are you serious?"

Matthew narrows his eyes and makes his voice deliberately accusatory. "Was that a rhetorical question?"

"No."

"Statement! That's two points for me."

"You're cheating! You made the rules so that only you can win." Alfred pouts. He is clearly a sore loser. Matthew bumps their shoulders together, trying to lighten the mood.

"No, it just takes practice," Matthew assures him. "My brother kicks my ass at this all the time. Ready to start again?" And they do:

ALFRED: When does this game end?

MATTHEW: Do you think it matters?

ALFRED: Doesn't it matter to you?

MATTHEW: Why should anything matter?

ALFRED: What should it matter why anything matters?

MATTHEW: [_growing more passionate_] Doesn't it _matter_ why it matters, if anything matters?

ALFRED: [_exasperated_] What's the _matter_ with you?

MATTHEW: [_hesitant_] It doesn't matter.

Alfred doesn't call foul on the statement. Somewhere along the way, the meaningless game to waste time became a profound examination of the nature of meaning. Matthew wants to laugh. He loves irony. "Life is a game, isn't it?"

Alfred has apparently picked up on the sudden gravity of the conversation, and it confuses him. "What's the game, then? What are the rules?"

"It's all questions."

They lapse into thoughtful silence.

"Well, this is making me think too much. I'm going to get a snack."

If Matthew and Francis use intellectualism to distance themselves from reality, Alfred's coping mechanism is just good old-fashioned avoidance.

* * *

><p>"Hey, Gilbert," Matthew begins timidly one day.<p>

"Hey, Birdie," Gilbert mocks. When they first started living together, Matthew had been intimidated by all the teasing. But Gilbert is just a sarcastic kind of guy; 'hostile' is his default setting, not out of malice but out of nature. Matthew has gradually acclimatized to this.

"Why do you call me Birdie?"

"Because you remind me of a bird. All twittery and squeaky and fluttery. Bony, too."

Not exactly a complimentary description, but he's had worse. Matthew nods and looks down into his lap. He can feel Gilbert's eyes still on his face and blushes. "I had a canary when I was a kid," he adds gently. "Named him Birdie." Gilbert looks as surprised by his own admission as Matthew feels. To make up for the tender moment, he abruptly switches topics. "Why aren't you coming to Antonio's party, anyway? Are you better than us or something?"

"N-no, really, that's not what I think at all—"

"Of course _I_ know that, Birdie, but most people don't understand shyness. Most people have never tried. You want to know how to make friends? You work at it. People don't just fall right out of the sky and into your lap. Nobody will try to hang out with you if you act like you don't want to hang out with them. They think they're being polite, even. If you can't be bothered, they won't bother you. Make sense?"

_Except for Alfred_, Matthew thinks quietly to himself. _He's too impolite to just leave me alone. _

_Thank god. _

"Yeah. I mean, I know what you're saying. Um. It's not always that…that easy, though."

"Yeah, well. The good things in life never are."

* * *

><p>Self-doubt is extremely exhausting, Alfred decides after two weeks of Matthew's psychological warfare.<p>

He really thought that he'd packed away all those childhood dreams of saving lives and making a difference. His family's welfare was far more important than his personal desires, so he'd long since decided to take over the family business and save what remained of the relationship between Arthur and their father. But then Matthew had come along, with his demur expressions and sneaky suggestions, his elegance, his eloquence, his passion for philosophy and a future belonging solely to him. Now, Alfred remembers what it's like to want. And it's exhausting to be pulled in two different directions like this: should he follow his heart or protect his brother?

Alfred is by no means selfish, so the answer is obvious.

But for the first time, he really understands how unfair it is.

Though he tries not to think about it, Matthew makes that pretty much impossible in his quiet, mysterious, unassuming way. And Alfred can't avoid him. That would be like trying not to push a big red button labeled DO NOT PUSH; that would be like trying to avoid the only thing that stands between him and a failing French grade.

"You speak French like its words. You can't do that. You have to treat every sentence like a single word, because it's a language and you have to make it flow. All the words are connected, dependent on one another for meaning. Make it a song, not a collection of words."

Despite everything else on his mind, Alfred can't shake his desire to be fluent in the language of Matthew, to be able speak him like a song and not words. He wants to know him completely, not just the individual parts, but the sum. To push the big red button, to get close to him precisely because he makes it so hard. And so Alfred endures the pointed comments about choosing one's own future and the _House_ marathons and the crippling self-doubt they cause.

His future is like a wound that didn't hurt until someone pointed it out. And now that Matthew's forced him to notice, Alfred can't stop prodding it. His future is a canker sore in his mouth, one that he can't stop worrying with his tongue. It hurts, but now that he's noticed it, he is incapable of ignoring it. He can't tune it out. DO NOT PUSH, his future says, and of course it's driving him crazy not to push it.

Eventually, of course, he snaps.

And so here he is, waiting outside his senior advisor's office for an appointment he swears he hadn't planned on making. It was almost like his body did it without his mind's consent, or his superego went out for a bite of lunch and his ego wreaked havoc in the meantime. One day, Alfred was secure in the knowledge that his life would be a tale of stable self-denial, and the next day he had a plan to apply to medical school, "just to have that option."

His advisor calls him in.

"What can I do for you, Alfred?" He is a kindly, smiling man with a great big beard. His hands are crossed in his lap nonthreateningly, and a file is spread open before him. Probably Alfred's records from the past three years. Maybe it's got his high school records, too. Seven years of his life, just sitting there, waiting to be judged. "I see that your major is Business. As it stands, you'll have all the credits you need to graduate at the end of this year. Is this about applying to business school?"

"Partially. I'm also, uh, thinking about applying to medical school."

"Really?" he asks with a puzzled frown. "Have you ever mentioned this before?" He shifts through the files.

"No, sir. I didn't realize it was possible until recently." This was a bad idea, just terrible, why was he doing this again? Ah, yes, Matthew. Matthew was an evil temptress, that's what he was.

"Well, you have all the required credits. Most schools would take you, considering your grades. Have you signed up for the MCAT?"

"No, sir."

"Oh, well, I'll help you do that right now! Do you have your credit card with you?" And that's how any lingering uncertainty about whether or not he was really going to do this disappeared.

"So you plan to apply to _both_ business school and medical school? Given the choice, which would you attend?"

Alfred tries to answer, but no sound comes forth. His vocal chords are paralyzed with indecision. "Well," he says finally, "I guess I'm sort of hoping that the choice will be made for me."

His advisor chuckles. "On the basis of one group's rejection? I don't think that's going to happen, considering your aptitude for both math and science, and your past test scores. Test-taking is a skill; if your high school SAT is any indication, you've got it. Which schools?"

Alfred remembers the names of the graduate schools Matthew had said he would apply to. This time, the answer spills out of his mouth without any indecision on his part.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>: You have no idea what you're getting into, Al. NO IDEA.

In other news, here comes philosophy. Hippity-hoppity, existentialism's on its way~

Please review!


	4. Chapter 4

**The Selfish Sickness  
><strong>by Positively

**The wonderful Animartchic has done fanart for this story! Take out the spaces (or visit my author's profile for linkage): http : / animartchic . deviantart . com /#/ d3goeal  
><strong>Thank you thank you thank you~~~**  
><strong>

Warnings: eventual Alfred/Matthew, college AU, slash  
>Includes language, alcohol, romanticized obsession, poor parenting, frank discussion of depression &amp; mental illness &amp; suicide, allusion, philosophical conflict (both internal and external), existential crises, religion, and eventual sex.<p>

.

DISCLAIMER: Hidekaz Himaruya owns the characters of Axis Powers Hetalia. Chuck Palahniuk owns _Invisible Monsters _and the quotes found within. Nietzsche and Sartre own those other really famous quotes. You know the ones. And hopefully you know that Dumbledore belongs to JK Rowling. Heavily referenced! Go read all of them. ALL of them. Read.

.  
>.<p>

* * *

><p>Matthew has been reading for fifteen hours straight.<p>

He has had exactly two small meals—eaten with one hand, as the other held a book—and one bathroom break. No naps. He hasn't the time. He ignores the knocking on his door, sometimes because he's concentrating too hard to hear it, and sometimes out of simple spite.

"You do realize that you have class in four hours. Are you going?"

"We're, uh, kinda concerned here, Matthew. Have you died in there?"

"Come eat something before Alfred has a goddamn hernia, Birdie. He's driving me nuts."

Finally he emerges and shuffles to the kitchen. The light slants in at a startling angle. "How long have I been reading?" he wonders aloud. The clock on the microwave flashes 6:37pm. "I haven't slept in twenty-seven hours! Imagine that." Matthew is a little woozy from sleep deprivation, and so he has forgotten how to think quietly.

"What were you reading, anyway?"

Matthew jumps about a foot into the air, and, embarrassed, refuses to meet Alfred's eyes. "I was researching my senior thesis. What do you want for dinner?"

"Don't do that. Don't 'What do you want for dinner' me. You're about to collapse. You haven't slept in twenty-seven hours. Christ, Matthew, take better care of yourself." For once, Alfred's tone is serious. He stands and guides Matthew into a chair. "Now, what should _I_ make _you_ for dinner?"

Matthew laughs right in his face. At Alfred's startled expression, he says, "Sorry, I thought you just said that you were going to make me dinner."

"Yeah, that's what I said."

Matthew stops chuckling abruptly, contrite. Alfred's expression is reprimanding, even a little angry. _Does he have the right to be angry at my not taking care of myself?_ His face is a few inches away. If one of them leaned forward a bit, their noses would touch. A bit more and their glasses would click together. Still more and their lips…

Matthew tries to ignore that possibility, but it's like trying not to stare at Katyusha's chest.

"What can you make?"

"Cereal?"

Matthew smiles. "Okay. I'll have some cereal."

"Or I could pick something up for you at—"

"If you're about to finish that sentence with the name of a fast food chain, the answer is no."

"Fine, then. Cereal for dinner."

Matthew pulls out a heavily annotated paperback (presumably from the hammerspace of his hoodie pocket) and searches for a specific quote. He tunes out the plinking noise of cereal pouring, the slosh of milk spilling over onto the counter, the rustling of silverware. He is incapable, however, of tuning out Alfred's absent-minded humming and good-natured cursing.

"Listen to this: 'Seth says your being born makes your parents God. You owe them your life, and they can control you. Then adolescence makes you Satan, just because you want something better.'"

Alfred places a bowl in front of Matthew.

"'First, your parents, they give you life, but then they try to give you their life.'"

Alfred sits down across from Matthew.

"I signed up for the MCAT."

"'When did the future switch from'—wait, what?"

"The MCAT. I signed up for it. So you can stop quoting Palahniuk at me. I got your message a long time ago."

Ah. Well that's…unexpected. "God, Alfred…I don't know what to say. Congratulations. And…"

_Thank you. Thank you so much for listening to me. _

"Yeah, well," he scrubs his face with his knuckles, a bit like a sleepy child. "I feel like shit about it." Still serious. It's a pretty unusual thing for Alfred, this solemnity.

"'When did the future switch from being a promise to being a threat?'"

"Listen, can we not talk about this?" His voice is sharp, his eyes uncharacteristically hard.

Matthew, intimidated, nods quickly and starts eating his cereal. He wants to gauge Alfred's anger, but he's too ashamed to look up. Alfred seems to have realized the effect his outburst has had on his suitemate, because he then asks in a softer tone, "So, what are you doing for fall break?"

"Off to stay with my crazy older brother."

"You too?"

Alfred's tone is light hearted, off-handed. _You too? Oh, those psychotically depressed brothers. What characters_. Matthew wants to be able to feel that tone, that detached nonchalance, translate it into emotion and make it his own. "Is your brother actually crazy, then?"

Alfred starts. "What?"

"Are you being facetious or dismissive? Is he just unusual, so you call him crazy, or is he actually crazy and you're just—never mind."

"He's…eccentric. How's the thesis going?"

"Pretty well, I guess. I'm studying the concept of self-awareness. Its source, more specifically."

"You mean human consciousness?"

"No, that's too broad. Uh…human identity. Personal identity, that is. Does one develop oneself as an individual through personal introspection or outward guidance? My answer is personal introspection. It'll be easier to find support, I think."

Alfred frowns. "Not true. I mean, what books have you been reading? Certainly none of the hero journeys, what with the Mentor and the Goddess and the rest…nor Tarot, the fool goes on a journey and gains wisdom through the people he meets. Introspection? Not a whole lot of books you can write about that."

Matthew is honestly confused. "A bunch of French existentialists are all about self-examination. Maybe characters along the way _help_ with the process, but the answers are always inside the hero. Or anti-hero, as the case may be. Waiting to be discovered. I guess that's the only kind of book I read."

"Not true again. 'There isn't any real you in "you." Nothing of you is all the way yours. All of you is inherited.'"

Matthew's jaw drops. He pages through _Invisible Monsters_, finds Alfred's words written before him in black and white and highlighted in bright green. "Taken out of context, but all the same I'm impressed. Word for word. I didn't know you liked Palahniuk enough to have him memorized."

"I have a mind for memorization," Alfred mutters, almost embarrassedly. "That's not the point. The point is…what kind of idiot thinks the key to individuality is the self? We don't grow up in a vacuum, you know. My 'self' is just my specific combination of genetics and environment. The genes my parents gave me combined with all the experiences I've ever had. I mean, maybe introspection allows me to _analyze_ that, but to say that the _source_ of my identity comes from within implies—"

"A soul," they finish together.

Matthew stares out the window, scratching at his chin absentmindedly with a milk-slick spoon. Alfred says, "You have to decide if you're writing about the _source_ of identity or the _discovery_ of identity. Two very different things. Though I'd argue that Other People have complete control over the first and severe influence on the latter. Certainly more than personal introspection."

Matthew considers the work he's done so far. "I'll have to…think…about…" He's already begun to do so. Intently.

And that's the end of that conversation.

Matthew might have noticed Alfred's gloating expression, had he not been introspecting so hard. _Epiphany through open discussion. One point for Team Outward Guidance._

* * *

><p>For all that he looks like Mama, Matthew privately believes that he's inherited his father's boring personality.<p>

Michael Williams was born and raised in Quebec. In school he made above average grades, went on to attend a four-year university, became an accountant, and settled in for a quiet bachelor's life. In fact, the most interesting thing he'd ever done was participate in a brief affair with (and subsequently impregnate) one Marianne Bonnefoy.

When Matthew was born, Michael paid child support faithfully and visited every so often to check on his son's welfare. Francis, though far advanced in French and English literature and history, needed a lot of help with math to keep up with the public school system; Michael tutored him, despite being intimidated by Francis' overwhelming precociousness. "'Everything has been figured out, except how to live,'" he would say sadly. "Did you know, Michael? 'God is dead.'" Francis called his mother Marianne, and made it his mission to figure out the first names of all the adults he knew.

His teachers were bewildered.

Matthew, however, grew up as normally as his father had. Michael would take him out to play catch in the park, or help him with homework. Often Matthew didn't need the help; but he pretended to for his father's sake.

Eventually, the visits tapered off. Both Michael and Matthew were too easygoing to put forth the effort of maintaining a relationship; neither was passionate enough to prevent its deterioration. Matthew actually preferred it this way, as Marianne was a permissive and disinterested parent to the extreme. He was used to noninterference and self-determination.

In short, Matthew pretty much raised himself.

(He doesn't know what it means to disappoint a parent—his never had expectations for him. The events of his childhood were largely chosen by himself. His early life would have been a vacuum but for his parents' genes, the circumstances of his mother's lifestyle, and his distant older brother's influence. All he has ever known is an uncaring, eccentric, and/or psychotically depressive family.)

By the time Matthew was seven years old, Francis (seventeen) had been doing hard drugs and having indiscriminate sex for a year. He was rather a lot like his mother.

But Matthew stayed quiet, unassuming, self-sufficient, and very very boring. He is rather a lot like his father.

He hopes.

* * *

><p>"Our poor, dear brother must be so bored without us," Angie sighs dramatically. "You know, he called me up last night. Said he needed an adventure. 'Some place that's unknowable,' he said. 'Not on a map,' he said. What a romantic. Can you think of a destination that's not on a map?"<p>

"Not a destination. An adventure. Death, maybe?"

"God, Matthew, don't even joke." Angie sounds legitimately disgusted, so he shuts up.

* * *

><p>Matthew, hungry, stares into the empty refrigerator.<p>

The abyss stares back.

"Alfred," he calls, mildly concerned. "We need to go buy some food. I'm starting to personify the fridge."

Alfred calls something back.

"What?"

"I said, 'What's the nature of your personification?'"

"Nietzschean."

"An abyss? A total absence of existence? That's serious." So they go to the grocery store.

"You know a lot of stuff, Alfred."

"Huh?" Alfred looks up guiltily from his candy bar. "I'll tell the cashier to scan the wrapper, I promise!"

"Your manners are atrocious. I mean, Fredrich Nietzsche. Not a lot of people would have gotten that."

"Really? He's kinda famous though, yeah? I'd say the average…okay, maybe not American, but the average Canadian is probably familiar. With him. His works. His phil-o-so-phy." Alfred snaps to the rhythm of the syllables. He grabs a bag of marshmallows and, with a sideways glance at Matthew that is probably supposed to be subtle, slides it into the grocery cart.

"But…" Matthew replaces the bag of marshmallows on the shelf, ignoring Alfred's pout. "You don't really strike me as the type…"

"People can—no, people _will_ surprise you, Matthew. I bet Gilbert watches chick flicks when nobody's around. I bet he cries his eyes out." Alfred drops the most expensive brand of chocolate chip cookies into the buggy. Matthew rolls his eyes and replaces it with a better deal. "And Eduard is probably a crazy drunk or something. And you…you. Hm." Alfred stops in the middle of the aisle (blocking the view of some poor mother browsing the Goldfish selection) and stares at Matthew consideringly.

"You're unknowable," he declares finally, scooting out of the poor mother's way. "Quite mysterious. The unlisted number. The tinted limousine window. The prize behind door number three."

"Is that…a compliment?"

"Who knows? With you, it's all questions. Whether or not that's a good thing is in the eye of the beholder."

"And in your eyes?"

Alfred smiles, a bit sadly. "You know, I used to be good at avoiding the buttons that said 'DO NOT PUSH?'" He pauses, seems to think back. "Now I'm asking all the wrong questions. Or all the right questions. All the questions they don't want me to ask, at any rate."

He doesn't elaborate any further. Matthew puzzles it out for weeks, and still can't figure out how Alfred feels about him.

* * *

><p><em>Do the things you're trained not to want.<em>

It's been a week, and Alfred still can't get that book out of his head.

_Find what you're afraid of most and go live there._

Alfred fears disappointing his family. He fears leaving Arthur to fend for himself. He fears his own desires, he fears his selfishness, he fears success.

_When did the future switch from being a promise to being a threat?_

Alfred's future is a canker sore.

"I hate my memory," he announces to his ceiling. "Stupid Mom, giving me perfect recall."

_I would pay snakes to bite her_.

God damn it.

Gilbert knocks on Alfred's door. "Party time. You ready yet?"

Yes. Alfred is beyond ready. He needs alcohol, STAT.

The party is a blur. Alfred met some very nice girls, some very nice boys, and some very nice vodka. The vodka was in conjunction with one of the nice boys, but for obvious reasons he can't remember much about the encounter.

Soon he's acting crazy, staggering through rooms in the flat and giggling hysterically. First, he finds Angie with a busty friend. They chat sedately in the corner of a quiet room. "Oh, look, it's Mattie's little Anthew! Uh, Matthew's little Angie. Little sister, Angie. What are you doing at a big bad senior party?"

"Gil invited me. And I, unlike my brother, am not a hermit. So here I am. This is my roommate, Katyusha."

"Nice to meet you," the busty girl says with a thick Eastern European accent. "You are one of Matthew's friends?"

"Yes," Angie responds for him. "His suitemate. It's weird, because Matthew never goes out of his way to meet anyone—actually, he goes out of his way to _not_ meet anyone—but somehow he tends to become involved with an alarming array of completely odd persons. Like so."

She gestures at Alfred, who had become bored with the conversation and is now flicking all the light switches he can find.

Next he happens upon Gilbert, who seems to be trying to chat up either Hungarian Liz or her boyfriend, the Austrian piano major. Or both.

"Do you need to go home?"

"No, not at all. This is the mos' fun I've had since grocery poshing—shopping—with Matthew. Damn. Good party, Antonia. O." He strokes a lamp.

"I'm going to call Matthew to come get you. Just stay here, okay?"

When Matthew arrives, he scans the room timidly. He looks very awkward and unsure of himself in this situation, with the blaring music and swaying bodies and the human connection. He spots Alfred sitting on one of the couches and approaches him quickly.

"I'm going to kill you slowly," Matthew states politely. Politely! Alfred wonders. What other human being on earth is capable of making polite death threats? I have the greatest suitemate in the world, he thinks to himself.

"I have the greatest suitemate in the world!" he shouts to the room at large. Luckily nobody is paying attention, and Matthew drags him out of the party with relatively little trouble after that.

"This is disgraceful, Alfred. You are positively _hammered_."

"Am not," Alfred protests, tripping over his feet for emphasis.

They meet Gilbert at the door. "Why did you let him get like this?" Matthew demands, clearly staggering beneath Alfred's weight.

"Whoa, Birdie, I'm not his keeper. I might have kept an eye on him if I'd known…"

"And _I_ had to come get him because—?"

"This party hasn't even started yet. I'm not about to leave just to take this loser home."

Matthew makes a disgusted noise and hobbles out the door. When they get back to the suite, Eduard is sitting in the common room for once. He looks over his laptop. "Uh, is he going to be okay?"

"Sadly, there is no cure for terminal idiocy."

"It's okey, I'm American," Alfred slurs. It makes loads of sense in his head.

Eduard looks extremely confused.

They stagger together into Alfred's bedroom, and when Matthew attempts to deposit him on the bed, he is tugged along. At first, he thinks it's just momentum, just gravity, that pulls him down; but it's Alfred yanking on his sweater. It's always Alfred, pulling Matthew closer to himself.

They don't just fall out of the sky and into your lap.

Friends, that is.

You have to pull them. Or they have to pull you.

Matthew is falling right into Alfred's lap.

"Okay, okay, let go, Alfred. Alfred. Do you want a glass of water? A bowl? I bet you'll need it when you wake up, stupid hoser. Disgraceful." Matthew tucks him in, fetching water and aspirin and a bowl from the kitchen. "I'm only doing this because you cleaned out the sink that one time. Normally I would leave you to suffer your just desserts. Why did you drink so much?"

"Good ol' fashioned avoidance."

"You're not old enough to need it."

"God, I wish tha' were the truth. I've set my table—stet and sable—dammit, set and stable. My future is set and stable. Life's over. I've got a map. A destination. The end. No more questions. It's all questions, remember?"

Matthew is quiet for a long while. You could choke on the silence. "That's…you're…don't. You can't say things like that. You can't be philosophical and mean it, not when you're this drunk."

"Maybe. You're probably right. You know a lot, Matthew. A lot of stuff. But I still don' really know what you are. Unknowable. Unmappable. You're all questions, remember? You're a labyrinth. A labyrinth of unanswerable questions."

Matthew has flicked off the lights, so Alfred can't read his expression. Not that he'd be any good at it, even if he were sober. Because Matthew's just so fucking mysterious. "Goodnight, Alfred. Sleep it off. No, no, lie on your side. I don't want you choking to death on your vomit in the night."

"'Death is just the next great adventure.' Albus Dumbledore. Yeah? Wise man, that Dumbledore. Double door. Dumblee-dore."

"All the same. Let's not answer the Call any sooner than we have to, okay?"

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Emetic asphyxiation happens. Ask John Bonham. Ask Bon Scott. Ask /sob/ Jimi Hendrix. Getting drunk is bad news, especially for the music industry, so drink responsibly. Keep it classy. Don't wake up to find your naked pictures plastered all over the internet. Don't be that kid.

(Also, did anyone see what I did up there? "Go read those authors. All of them. READ." "Matthew's been reading for fifteen hours straight." You see what I did there? I directly connected you, as the reader, to the main character. I told you to go read. You're currently reading this. Matthew was reading Palahniuk. And then you were reading Palahniuk, indirectly, through this fic. WE'RE ALL CONNECTED, MAN)

(This is important)

Please review!


	5. Chapter 5

**The Selfish Sickness  
><strong>by Positively

Warnings: eventual Alfred/Matthew, college AU, slash  
>Includes language, alcohol, romanticized obsession, poor parenting, frank discussion of depression &amp; mental illness &amp; suicide, allusion, philosophical conflict (both internal and external), existential crises, religion, and eventual sex.<p>

.

DISCLAIMER: Hidekaz Himaruya owns the characters of Axis Powers Hetalia. T.S. Eliot (or his estate, since he's dead now?) owns "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," which in my lowly untrained opinion is among the greatest poems ever written. Heavily referenced! Go read it. If you're curious about the internet phenomenon Slender Man, look _him_ up on TV Tropes or the Mythical Creatures Guide. I believe there's a Gemini Star01 story about _him_. As she said to her readers: "I am not responsible for any loss of sleep that results from this."

.  
>.<p>

* * *

><p>Matthew decides to introduce Alfred to the Slender Man mythos one day, when his studies are boring and television is soul-killing. (Because seriously, Jersey Shore? Americans are just sadistic.)<p>

It scares the everliving fuck out of Alfred.

"This shit isn't scary," Alfred mutters against Matthew's shoulder. He has buried his face in the fabric there, and Matthew can feel him shaking against his side, where they sit together on the couch in front of his laptop. "You're really scared of this? Ha. You're such a scaredy-cat, Matthew."

"Alfred, you're about to draw blood."

The scaredy-cat detracts his claws from Matthew's arms. "Sorry."

After this, Matthew makes it his mission to watch as many scary movies with Alfred as possible. The American's machismo prevents him from refusing the invitations, and he even has the gall to say, "Since I know you're too scared to watch it alone, I'll watch with you. I'll protect you, Matthew!" Though his face is white with dread. It's a little sadistic, but Matthew finds the whole thing adorable. He loves Alfred's denial—"I am most certainly not afraid! Stop projecting!"—and the way he shrinks against Matthew's side in fear. Even during the truly awful movies, the ones that aren't even meant to be scary. It's worth all the sleep he loses, staying up with Alfred in the common room with the lights on. "We can't go to sleep yet, Matthew! The night is young!" The clock flashes 4:30am.

Matthew is just endeared to everything Alfred does these days. The things that he used to hate—Alfred copying his homework, eating his food, disrupting his sleep schedule—still annoy him, but in a fond, affectionate sort of way. _You're getting soft_, he thinks to himself, but this too is regarded with a certain mellow acceptance.

The truth is that Alfred is the kind of grand, eccentric character whose faults can be forgiven in light of more prominent assets. When Alfred manages to get the Second Elder Scrolls game, Daggerfall, to work on his computer, he nearly dies of excitement. "It's a classic!" he exclaims, and yammers on and on about court intrigue and Daedric armor and the Underking, who tore out his heart and hid it away for power. Once he woke Matthew up at one in the morning to try to teach him chess. He has an uncanny memory for quotes, and frequently recites _Monty Python and the Holy Grail_ (complete with accents) for Matthew's entertainment. Sometimes he sends Matthew random texts, like:

_WORMHOLES EXIST but they are smaller than atoms_

or:

_Redwood trees are fireproof_

or, memorably:

_I think I used your shampoo this morning. It smells GOOD!_

And Matthew saves every one.

God, he is fucked.

But only figuratively.

Most of the time, Alfred is some shade of maniacal: enthusiastic to the point of hilarity, energetic to the point of feverishness, passionate to the point of obsession. He's mad, of course, but in a charming and interesting way. Matthew feels himself swept up in this passion, observing it and cherishing it in that quiet part of himself that remembers what it is to care without limits. When Alfred turns to him with all that intense vivacity, that obsessed, single-minded attention, Matthew laughs and tries to keep up.

And when Alfred nonverbally expresses the theory of gravity—what goes up must come down—by completely crashing, losing all energy and optimism, staying in bed for hours with the lights off, Matthew asks to come into his bedroom and sit at his feet. He texts Francis or Angie.

"I don't feel like sitting on the roof," he'd explain, trying to pretend that he wasn't purposefully leaning back against Alfred's toes. Alfred never responds with anything more than a grunt or groan, but favors him with especially gentle smiles afterward, the kind that both warm Matthew's chest and set his stomach to trembling.

Matthew feels that it is really the least he can do for the only person who's ever paid him the slightest bit of attention.

When he has the presence of mind to wonder about it, Matthew can't decide if he's falling or being pulled. The connotation of "fall" is too passive to describe what's happening here; this is no fault of gravity or happenstance. Alfred is dragging Matthew in, perhaps not deliberately, but emphatically and completely.

Matthew is too tired to fight it. Too lonely to even want to try.

* * *

><p>"I hate my psychology professor. Why do I even have to take a social sciences elective anyway? What use could that possibly be to a computer programmer?"<p>

"Why do you hate him, Eduard?"

"He's Freudian. I had to write a paper and he told me that I want to have sex with my mother. That's just ridiculous."

Alfred enters the kitchen at the exact wrong moment. "You want to have sex with your mother?"

"No, his professor's Freudian."

"Oh. Is that unusual?"

Eduard considers. "A psychologist who believes in Freudian technique is like a biologist who rejects the theory of evolution."

"Ah." Alfred nods understandingly.

"They exist," Matthew argues.

"Yeah, but luckily no one takes them seriously."

"Okay, I hate Freud, it's true. But I'm a fan of Jung. Have you studied him at all yet?"

"A bit. He had crazy ideas about dreams."

"Yeah, the dreams were pretty crazy. It's the archetypes that make sense. You know, Alfred, the Hero's Journey, with the Mother and the Goddess and the Temptress and the Mentor. Part of his idea of the collective unconscious. You know how so many religions and myths, developed independently from one another, overlap sometimes? Like they talk about in _Zeitgeist_ and _The Golden Bough_? He was writing about that."

"That's pretty neat," Alfred replies noncommittally. His interest is fickle. When trying to get his attention, Matthew sometimes feels a bit like a compulsive gambler, or a dog being conditioned with a variable-ratio rewards system. He never knows when Alfred is going to respond with affection or simply ignore him. It's the most addictive reinforcement pattern there is: inconsistency. Why some people refuse to end an abusive relationship. Why kids are so obsessed with getting their parents' attention.

"He says all the stories have been told before. There is nothing new under the sun, and all that."

"Ecclesiastes 1:9."

"Seriously, Alfred?"

"I can't help that I remember things."

"I don't think that's true," Eduard protests, reminding Matthew that he's still in the room with them. "There are plenty of original stories."

"If you believe Jung, they're just retellings of the basic stories that have been around since the dawn of human consciousness. With variations."

"Then what's the point of writing anything?" Alfred asks sadly.

"Money, of course," responds Eduard pragmatically. "Publishing is a profession. Oh, you meant philosophically? Psychologically? Humans like variations of stories they know. There is such a thing as entertainment value, regardless of originality or lack thereof."

"T.S. Eliot had issues with it, too. In 'The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock' he said: 'So how should I presume? …Would it have been worth while, To have bitten off the matter with a smile, To have squeezed the universe into a ball, To roll it toward some overwhelming question…'"

"But it's all questions." Alfred and Matthew share a smile.

"That's the game. And the rules."

"Questions, questions, unanswerable questions. A labyrinth of them."

"Indeed."

"What?" Eduard cuts in. "I don't get it. You guys have this creepy twin language or something. You're spending too much time together."

Matthew has noticed this, too. But the thought of spending less time with Alfred is an idea that his mind can't quite comprehend, Alfred's company such a fixed constant in his life that removing or lessening it is as unthinkable as taking away his ability to see the color green.

Then he thinks that perhaps it's a good thing Fall Break is just around the corner. He needs to step away from this all-consuming black hole that is Alfred Jones, gain a bit of perspective before he is sucked back in. It's a little embarrassing, this obsession.

* * *

><p>In retrospect, growing up in the Bonnefoy family has been a bit of a damper on Matthew's self-esteem.<p>

Marianne was a terribly self-absorbed woman. She hated herself and her life, and was passionately in love with this tragic fact. She considered it romantic. Her children were part of the burden that she had to bear, but the way she handled this varied day to day. Sometimes she played the part of the quirky, fun-loving, kind-hearted mother, who packed their lunches full of cookies and took them out of school for spontaneous road trips. Sometimes she was the intellectual, teaching them word games and reading them French existentialism and telling off Francis' teachers when they objected to the first-name-basis thing. Sometimes she was angry and distant and forced them to fend for themselves.

And the inconsistency, the unpredictability, of her affection was maddening to Matthew. Francis had grown up on the road, without roots or any idea of what stability even meant; but Matthew had grown up in Canada, knowing a single home and a single school and the same group of people for his whole life. He had this vague idea that things should stay the same, that he should be able to say on any given day, "Yes, my mother loves me and feeds me and cares what I do." But he could never say any one of these things with certainty. It was always, "Maybe today she loves me and will feed me and cares what I do." Certainly she did sometimes.

Her distance made her something of a legend in Matthew's eyes, unattainable, untouchable. He _adored_ her. She was a beautiful queen who, every so often, would stoop to his level and say and do the most wonderful things. It was inconsistent reinforcement: Matthew grew insecure in her affection, and ever more desperate to receive it.

Francis was much like Marianne in the way he treated Matthew, and their ten-year age difference pretty much ensured hero worship. Though he was moody and aloof, Francis did like to lecture Matthew on the finer points of philosophy and history. He was brilliant, and even before he entered school Matthew was aware that Francis was an exceptional boy.

When he did start school, all of Matthew's teachers expected a precocious Francis-copy, and were invariably disappointed with the quiet, unassuming, respectful little Williams. In this boy, there was none of the fire and passion of a Bonnefoy; in this boy, none of that quixotic personality or brilliance. They often forgot he was even there.

Between his mother's half-neglect, his brother's cold superiority, and his teachers' disappointment in his lack of presence, it's easy to see how Matthew might feel a little inferior.

In addition, he was terrible at making friends. He'd only grown up with a distant mother and brother, and a father whom he saw maybe once a month; social interaction was a mystery to him. He had plenty of imagination and independence, so he kept to himself. Children, those unbelievably self-absorbed little creatures that they are, ignored him in turn. It was a satisfactory arrangement for all.

In this way, Matthew observed humanity from afar. He, at the tender age of seven, realized that social interaction between adults was nothing but lies, and social interaction between children was nothing but trifles. Teenagers like Francis were capable of speaking honestly and of significant matters, but they were irrationally emotional.

Matthew had a low opinion of humans. It wasn't hatred; it was clinical detachment. He counted himself outside of the general category of humanity. He was simply himself. That was why he had no friends, and that was why he was okay with it.

* * *

><p>It is 4:30 on a Monday afternoon, and Matthew wakes from a catnap with the realization that he hasn't started his Judeo-Christian-Islam paper that's due tomorrow. He searches through his bag frantically, but can't find the assignment. Why on earth is Adnan so set on using paper? Why not post their assignments online? Crazy Turk.<p>

Alfred is currently in Chem 301, so Matthew can't ask to see his. But maybe he left his JCI notebook in his room?

He hesitates before Alfred's door, to which is taped a silly little smiley face and an acrostic poem: Awesome Lovable Fantastic Radical Extraordinary Delightful. Though Alfred has certainly taken liberties with others' possessions, Matthew is rather more tactful and therefore reluctant to invade another's privacy. But he would really, really like to get started on this paper before dinner, and Alfred won't get back until 7:30, and it's not like he would mind anyway…

So Matthew, with the leftover-drowsiness from his recent nap, pushes open the door to Alfred's room. His first impression is one of nerdy and colorful chaos, like a rainbow with a doctorate vomited all over the place. There is a poster of the Periodic Table of the Elements, the Crab Nebula, and the ever classy Einstein-with-his-tongue-sticking-out. On the floor are what appear to be an entire week's worth of dirty clothes, including a pair of American flag boxers. "Classy," Matthew comments aloud. They match the rumpled, unmade American flag bed sheets.

The desk is completely obscured by loose papers and McDonald's trash. Next to it, a bookshelf overflows with sci-fi and biology texts. One appears not to belong, and Matthew, curious, examines it. "Rene Magritte? Alfred, the Secret Surrealism Fan?" This is too good to pass up. Matthew, absorbed completely in his perusal of the book, absentmindedly seats himself upon the unmade bed. _This is not a pipe. _It's raining men. Apple-face. Matthew thinks Surrealism is hilarious.

As any booknerd will attest, he is then physically incapable of not exploring the entirety of Alfred's bookcase, not only for potential reads but also for the insight. One's favorite books—especially those held in high enough regard to take up precious dorm space—can say a lot about a person.

And that's how Alfred finds him three hours later, dozing peacefully on top of his bed sheets, a _Lord of the Rings_ picture book upended on his chest.

* * *

><p>"Uh…Matthew?"<p>

He starts awake. "Huh, whuh?" Sitting up abruptly, his eyes meet Alfred's. He straightens his round glasses. "Alfred?" Matthew glances down at his lap and sees American flag sheets and a book that doesn't belong to him.

Realization dawns. "Oh, god! Alfred, I'm so sorry! I came in to look for our assignment for tomorrow, the one on desert culture, because I couldn't find mine, and then I saw Magritte, and I had to explore, you know how it is, and I was so sleepy—" He speaks so quickly that Alfred has a hard time keeping up. Especially with that flush painted across his cheekbones and the cute way he bites at his lips.

"It's cool." _It's awesome. It's beyond adorable. _"You can borrow that, if you want. It's a gift from my brother. He loves those books."

"So do I. But, no thanks, I have my own copy in my room."

"Good! Everybody should." Alfred sits at the edge of the bed, next to Matthew's feet. It's an inversion of their usual positions-when Alfred is feeling low and Matthew always seems to notice, and keep him company-which reminds Alfred of how great it is to have Matthew as a friend. He drapes himself affectionately over the Canadian's calves. "When I first saw the _Fellowship of the Ring_, I decided that I had to move to New Zealand one day."

Matthew chuckles. "I can just imagine."

"Yeah, me 'n' Arthur drove my dad crazy with it. We both always wanted to be Aragorn. There were some spectacular fights."

"Speaking of. Have you mentioned yet to your father that you're applying to medical school?"

"Of course not."

"You're going to have to stand up to him eventually, you know."

This is true for a whole host of reasons that Matthew isn't allowed to know about.

"Have you been studying for the MCAT?"

"No, I figure I'll just wing it."

"_Wing_ it? Alfred. You can't get into medical school by _winging_ it. You're competing against the best students in the country. Winging it will not bring any success."

Alfred is more terrified than anything that he will succeed in this.

When Matthew finally drags himself away—though Alfred tries his best to keep him pinned down—"Don't leave me, then I'll have to start working, too!"—Alfred steels himself for the hardest part of his day.

He dials Arthur's number, changes his mind. Tries again, loses his nerve. Finally, he hits the Call button. It rings twice before picking up. "Alfred?"

Alfred can tell right away that things are not going well.

"Arthur? How have you been today?"

"Not—not so great. I'm trying, really, I'm trying, but. I'm scared all the time. Alfred, I don't even know—and you aren't here to tell me—it's getting worse. I can't tell. God damn it."

Alfred squeezes his eyes closed and lies. "It's okay, Arthur. You're okay."

"How can I know? What if I'm not? What if Dad—what if—what if it isn't safe, what if they're watching me, I can hear them, in, in the walls—"

"Arthur." Alfred uses his very best calming voice. If he were at home, he would put an arm on Arthur's back, between his shoulder blades, try to ground him in reality. _This is real_, he would say. _My hand is real. Focus on it, and nothing else_. But Alfred is miles away, and a phone call is the best he can do. "Arthur, listen to me. You're safe. Nobody is watching you, okay? I want you to go find Mom—"

"No! She's—she'll—she'll tell Dad, and he'll get so angry, she's not like you, nobody's here anymore—nobody but me—"

"Arthur. Listen to me. You need to find Mom. She'll protect you, okay? Mom is safe."

"I'm sorry, Alfred. I'll be better tomorrow."

And maybe he will. Maybe tomorrow will be a good day, and Arthur will wake up his usual stuffy, bristly self, insulting Alfred in his posh accent. And maybe he'll be okay the next day, too. Maybe he'll be okay for a whole month. But it never lasts. Anger surges through Alfred, helpless fury at the unfairness of Arthur's illness and the refusal of their father to acknowledge it.

"Arthur is just eccentric," their father commands. "A brilliant shut-in. He is _not _delusional. No son of mine is mentally ill."

Affirmations. Say something often enough, and maybe you'll start to believe.

"Do you need me to stay on the phone with you, Arthur? Or can you go find Mom for me?"

"I'll find Mom. I'll talk to you tomorrow?"

"Of course. Good night. And remember: you're safe. I swear." More affirmations. The line disconnects.

* * *

><p>Author's Note: <em>The Golden Bough<em> is by Sir James George Frazer, and it will blow your mind. _Zeitgeist the Movie (2007)_ is a documentary by Peter Joseph, somewhat disturbing, extremely factually dubious, a bit on the crazy-conspiracy-theory side, and you can watch it at zeitgeistmovie dot com (note: only Part One is relevant; Part Two and Part Three make homicidally angry and dismissive respectively). _The Golden Bough_ and _Zeitgeist_ are both wonderfully Jungian, and will make you fall in love with anthropology, and will offend you if you are religious. I don't heavily reference them throughout the fic, so if you want to skip out on them that's okay. Maybe even preferable, as far as _Zeitgeist _is concerned. I luuuuuuuurrrrrrrve Part One, godless astrology-enthusiast that I am, but…be wearing your skeptic hats for this, guys. Zealotry goes both ways.

In other news, I can't decide if "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" is extremely humbling or uplifting. I mean, my dumbass English teacher took it at face value, and yours probably did/do/will, too—"it's about his social anxiety"—but beneath that is the message that, "Everything's been said and done, and better than I could ever do it by people like Dante and Shakespeare, so why should I even speak?" And if T. S. Eliot was insecure about his significance in the literary world, maybe I can feel better about my own insecurities.

Or maybe I should be really _really_ insecure, because _T. S. Eliot, _undeniably significant badass motherfucker that he was, saw the eternal footman hold his coat, and snicker.

So how should I presume?

Please review!


	6. Chapter 6

**The Selfish Sickness  
><strong>by Positively

**Warnings**: Same as before. I'll assume you've read them already, and will henceforth only include a list if I think of something new. I like the word henceforth.

.

DISCLAIMER: Hidekaz Himaruya owns the characters of Axis Powers Hetalia. _I Am a Strange Loop_ is by Douglas Hofstadter, and I'm in the midst of reading it at the moment and I think it just accidentally turned me into a vegetarian. And my sister got me a Kindle for my graduation and I don't know if I can resist any book at all ever. WHELP THERE GOES MY CHECKING ACCOUNT. Goddamnit why do I do this to myself

.  
>.<p>

* * *

><p>It is mid-October, and fall break is finally here. Friday afternoon smells strongly of autumn, which Alfred gleefully points out to anyone who will listen. "Are you ready to go home, Matthew? See that crazy older brother?"<p>

"Ready as I'll ever be," he responds truthfully. Alfred favors him with a messy grin that stirs a warm riot in his stomach.

"How are you getting there?"

"Driving. It's about ten hours, and I really should have left this morning, but I wanted to stay for my biology class. Angie and I might have to sleep in a motel for the night."

"Damn. I'm only going down to Virginia, and I booked a flight."

"I got special permission to bring a car. Might as well use it. And…I like roadtrips."

Alfred laughs. "You would."

It is absolutely astonishing to Matthew that someone knows him well enough to say "you would," and genuinely know enough to mean it.

When they part ways, it is with an uncomfortable hug that leaves Matthew biting the inside of his cheek. The awkwardness is obviously only in his mind; Alfred is pretty much immune to that. But Matthew feels like a fool anyway. "See you in a week," he squeaks, feeling his face heat as he waves a little. Abruptly, his hand drops to his side.

"Bye, Matthew!" Alfred says with a sunny grin that creases his eyes. He waves more enthusiastically, and far more comfortably.

Damn the extroverts of this world, thinks Matthew. They have it so easy.

Alfred walks jauntily (_jauntily_, dammit, how does he pull it off?) down the hall and turns into the stairwell. Matthew watches him go, and then pads back into the kitchen, feeling a little lost. Angie was supposed to have been here ten minutes ago, but apparently the packing process isn't going smoothly. It never does, the first time.

So Matthew gathers his bags in the common room, and opens the refrigerator to look for the Jell-O he made as a snack for himself and Angie.

It's gone.

Matthew would have suspected his three suitemates equally, but then he catches sight of the sticky note on a milk jug:

_Future Matthew—  
>It's midnight and I'm SUPER HUNGRY! I figured you wouldn't mind too much if I ate this jello since we're leaving for break tomorrow anyway. Also, isn't it neat how this is like time travel? I'm talking to you…from YESTERDAY<em>  
>Smiley Face,<em><br>Past Alfred_

The nerve!

The worst part is, of course, that half of Matthew finds it endearing. Which only makes the annoyed half more annoyed.

* * *

><p>They end up not stopping, because Angie, who normally would have shamed Matthew into pulling over, fell asleep in the car around eleven. They reach home at two-thirty in the morning; Francis hadn't expected them to be back tonight, so the lights are off and the doors locked. Angie yells at Matthew outside for being irresponsible—"You could have fallen asleep and killed us both! If you wanted to get here so soon, you should have woken me up to take a shift!"—and then they quietly let themselves in.<p>

Matthew hadn't wanted to stop in Quebec, though. He'd wanted to keep going. He loves to drive, especially at night, awake with the magic of travel, of transition, of speed and motion. Something about nighttime journeys made alone, or at least awake alone, twists his gut with anticipation, a yearning he cannot name. _Mysterium tremendum et fascinans. _He itches with it. He is annoyed to stay put.

But he is home, whatever that means these days, in the strange limbo of his college years. The atrium is achingly familiar, even in the dark; and the darkness only emphasizes the house's scent, the completely indescribable fragrance of home. Though the associated memories are not always pleasant, Matthew embraces the nostalgia with the eagerness of a romantic.

His bedroom is as he remembered it: stark and minimalistic, bold lines at precise angles, clean; neatness with clear artistic intent. All except for his bed, which has soft, rounded edges. He can never get the sheets crisp enough to match the rest of the room. It drove him crazy at fifteen, when he'd gone through that interior design phase. (At sixteen, he'd given Angie an agonized, heartfelt confession about his sexual orientation; she'd just snorted and replied, "You didn't exactly make it a secret, Mattie." But honestly, the interior design was just a phase, and it was the only stereotype he fit.)

He sets his bags down on the floor and flops onto the aforementioned bed. On his phone is a text from Alfred: _I made it home! No terrorists jacked my plane. _Matthew doesn't text back in case Alfred is asleep, but he smiles and saves it.

* * *

><p>The next morning drags Matthew out of sleep slowly and unpleasantly. It is decisively autumn here in Quebec, not just smelling like it but <em>here, <em>and he wakes shivering from dreams about deserts of ice and cold wind.

Francis is still sleeping, presumably, so Matthew makes himself some coffee and sits at the kitchen table. He would go out and get the newspaper, but it's cold and he's lazy. He spends his time instead trying not to dwell in the less pleasant memories his return has awakened. He wonders if Matthias and Tino and the rest of his former hockey team are still in town; they had not planned to attend college, and Matthew cannot imagine them going to work. But, then again, he hadn't really interacted with them after the Neighborhood Watch put a stop to their unofficial hockey league. That was…four years ago? Matthew's junior year in high school. He has changed a lot since then. They probably have too.

It's kind of sad when your town moves on without you.

Francis stumbles down the stairs at ten, and starts in surprise. "Matthew! Here already?" Matthew stands and they embrace. Francis' arms are strong and certain, without any trace of awkwardness or insincerity. It's the kind of romantically earnest hug only Frenchmen can pull off.

"We didn't bother stopping at a motel last night. I wasn't tired."

"Well, good for you. Pour me some of that coffee, please."

Matthew does so, and Francis steals his seat. "_I Am a Strange Loop_. Researching your thesis then?" He picks up the book Matthew had been reading and pages through.

"Yeah. It's really interesting, though I don't know if I can use any of it yet. And, um, my suitemate, you know, Alfred Jones? He was telling me I should take a different angle. Than the one we talked about. I might take his advice. Or not. I don't really know anymore. Anyway, uh, what have you been up to?"

Francis laughs, rich and warm and booming. Matthew's heart sinks. "Nope, you can't get away that easily. You've been discussing philosophy with this Alfred Jones? _You_, making an effort to socialize? It must be love."

"No, he didn't give me a choice! He talked to me whether I wanted him to or not!"

"And does he have a nice ass?"

"Yes, but that wouldn't be the point, even if I did like him!"

"My, so you've thought about this? How cute. My little brother has a crush."

Matthew plonks down his mug with a frustrated noise, and Francis shakes his head. "No need to get all squeaky, frère. Just making some observations. To answer your question, I have not been up to much of late. I have not been up to much." A pause. "Did you notice—?"

"Yes, Francis, I am aware of the double-meaning of that statement. You haven't _been_ up to much, meaning you haven't done anything. You haven't been _up_ to much, meaning you haven't _felt_ like doing anything. Aren't you clever." Matthew seats himself across from his brother.

"I can always count on you to understand. But I really haven't done anything, and neither have I had the desire to do anything, for a long while. I hate being here, you know. I really hate this house. I feel like a teenager all over again."

Matthew remains silent.

"Except that Mama isn't here anymore."

Matthew remains silent.

"I hated her too, sometimes. But as it turns out, we have far too much in common."

More silence.

"She was a sad woman, Matthew. A very sad woman."

"That much, I think," Matthew begins coldly, shaking with suppressed fury, "is obvious enough." He stands from the table, leaving Francis sitting alone with his book.

* * *

><p>"He <em>knows<em> how much I hate talking about her, Angie."

"And _you _know how much he _needs_ to talk about her. Neither of you is respecting the other. And you disrespected me, by barging into my bedroom at ten-thirty in the morning, while I was _sleeping_, to complain about something that really could have waited. So I'm more inclined to side with him. Seriously, why not go talk to him about it?"

"Because talking to him is impossible! He'll bring up Mama, like he always does, even though I've asked him so many times not to do it. I've tried, I really have, but he never listens."

Angie sighs. "I know it's frustrating, Matthew. He'll get better eventually, I'm sure. In the meantime, try not to make an enemy of him? We're family. And that means a lot. We're all each other has in this world."

Matthew nods, guilty because this statement is especially true for her.

* * *

><p>Francis had been considered exceptional, and by definition, grew up exempt from many rules. He was wild, but his wildness was tolerated with a fond shake of the head and a wry smile: <em>Oh, that's just Francis Bonnefoy. He's just that way. Did you know he grew up on trains?<em> Even his teachers gave him ridiculous extensions and ignored misbehavior, because it was clearly the mark of genius.

Other children who acted irresponsibly were just dumb kids. But with Francis, it was because of the incredible person he was. He was a genius, and geniuses always had behavioral problems. They were never good at following rules.

This, of course, was nothing more than a self-fulfilling prophecy. Francis' misbehavior went undisciplined, and so he remained an undisciplined person. He did not believe that the rules applied to him because of who he was, an idea that the adults in his life only reinforced.

("Late again? Oh, Francis."

"Pardonnez-moi, I stayed up all last night reading Baudelaire's Fleurs du Mal. 'Un livre est un jardin, un verger, un entrepôt, une partie, une compagnie d'ailleurs, un conseiller, une multitude de conseillers.'"

"All right, all right, it's fine, take your seat.")

At the age of sixteen, Francis was making friends with college students in the city, and getting into all kinds of depravity. He'd heard, of course, that drugs were bad news; but the rules didn't apply to him. He was a genius, right? That's what everybody was always telling him. And geniuses—especially the writers and philosophers—they did drugs, because it made them more creative. They were the kind of people for whom drugs were accepted, glamorous even, simply because of who they were. And Francis desperately wanted to prove everybody right, that he was this romantic, self-destructive, brilliant, misunderstood hero of intellect.

This brought back all kinds of painful memories for Marianne, who had felt the same way about herself at that age. Belatedly she tried to straighten Francis out, but her opposition only encouraged him. Rebellion is always romantic to a teenager. Which was painfully ironic, because it drove him into acting more and more like his mother.

Matthew had only been seven at the time, but he was an unusually observant seven-year-old. He watched his family scream and break things and throw tantrums and refuse to eat. Francis and Marianne fought the same way: like teenagers. He wasn't really sure what it was about, but he knew that Francis was getting less and less friendly. "Why are you so sad, brother?" he would ask.

"Because there's nothing on this earth worth being happy for," Francis had snarled back.

When Francis turned eighteen, Marianne kicked him out. Later, Matthew found out that it was because of the powders and pills hidden under his mattress, and the late nights and early mornings that brought him home smelling of sweat, sex, and someone else's perfume or cologne. Marianne was not a good mother by most reckonings, but she would not tolerate that behavior in the same house as a seven-year-old child.

Francis moved to Paris, and then began the sharp decline of Marianne's mental health.

* * *

><p>The week is passed in a haze of cold, coffee, and books. Matthew takes shelter in his bedroom and revels in quietness, so unlike that of his college dorm. Angie is catching up with her friends, those who are still in high school and those who are fellow freshmen home for Fall Break.<p>

Francis sleeps late and stays up later, drinking liver-shriveling quantities of red wine, staring into the middle distance and sighing dramatically. Matthew knows that he is just dying for one of them to ask what's wrong. So, out of spite, he remains silent. During the day, Francis sometimes leaves unannounced, at irregular intervals. Neither of his siblings knows, nor do they want to know, what he's getting up to; both would be willing to bet it has something to do with sex. When Angie notices he's gone, she shares a look with Matthew: I wonder if he's got a lover, but I don't want to wonder out loud, because he's our brother and that's just weird. Matthew silently agrees.

There's a lot of that here. Silence.

And Matthew takes those opportunities, when Francis and Angie are away and he is suffocating on that silence, to walk down the half-staircase from the kitchen to the den. He takes the steps slowly, and sneaks guiltily across the room to the sliding-glass door, and observes the back yard for a few moments. Then he turns around, degree by slow degree, as though he expects to see a ghost standing behind him; and sometimes he puts his arm forth, reaching out in supplication or fear, just to check.

And then he takes a very long walk, eight steps, give or take a few, battling the kind of ghosts that live in the mind, the kind that are real.

He reaches the door to the master bedroom, the room where his mother used to sleep. The silence is thick and heavy around him, complete and total and dead. His hand closes on the doorknob.

He turns it, ever so slowly, but the door is locked from the inside, as it has been for seven years.

Relieved, Matthew retreats back upstairs to his cold, clean, silent room. He reads.

* * *

><p>Francis bids them farewell at an ungodly hour on Sunday morning. He hugs Angie tenderly with a warning that boys her age are interested in nothing but sex, and if she must date, to date a boy Matthew's age. Or a professor, like he used to do. Matthew he grasps by both shoulders and holds him there for a moment, staring straight into his eyes. "Matthew, my brother." He says nothing more, but draws him in for one of those Frenchman embraces, and squeezes for a moment before releasing.<p>

"We'll see you again in November for Thanksgiving, Francis."

"Is that the holiday with the turkeys? Americans are odd."

Driving back to school is extremely depressing, as always. Break was too short. Matthew feels like he'd barely had enough time to realize he could relax, and as soon as he did, it was over. Angie is grumpy and unsociable—probably for those very reasons—and falls asleep within the first hour of the trip. They stop for lunch, but don't for dinner: the return trip is never fun, and both of them just want to get the fuck out of the car. At seven-thirty in the evening Matthew enters his suite, knowing he should eat and do laundry, but really just wanting to collapse and mope.

"Matthew, I don't _wanna_ go to class tomorrow."

"Shut up, retard, none of us do. He's been saying that for hours, Birdie," Gilbert says, directing the latter sentence to Matthew. "Distract him before Eduard and I stab him and bury his body in the courtyard."

"Yes, please do," Eduard mutters, not looking up from his laptop. Matthew winces: Alfred must be in his extremely annoying mode if it's got Eduard feeling homicidal.

"Have you had dinner yet, Alfred?"

"_No_, I'm really _hungry_, but I don't feel like _doing_ anything."

"I'll make you something if you stop whining like that."

"I'm not _whining_." But he jumps up from the couch to help drag Matthew's bags down the hall to his room. They enter the kitchen and Matthew prepares to make spaghetti, which is quick and simple, and one of Alfred's favorites.

In contrast to his previous languishing on the couch, Alfred bounces with energy, as though he has something of utmost import to tell Matthew. But if that's the case, he does not volunteer the information, and Matthew doesn't ask.

In an attempt to get Alfred to be less of a freeloader, the Canadian has been trying to teach him to cook; they work side by side, Alfred occasionally asking questions about how much water to use and how to tell when the pasta's ready ("If you throw it at the wall, you're cleaning it up," Matthew warns). Matthew makes the sauce, and adds a secret ingredient when Alfred isn't watching.

"Onions?" Alfred makes a disgusted face when he chews his first mouthful. "I don't like onions."

"I know," Matthew replies nervously. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now he's not so sure that Alfred will find it humorous.

"Um. Okay then. What the hell?"

"It's revenge. You shouldn't have eaten my Jell-O." Matthew can feel his face getting redder and redder. This isn't clever, this is stupid, and Alfred's going to think him odd and immature, and why did he do this again? Who cares about the Jell-O? Why is he making such a big deal about something that happened a week ago? Why is he such a weirdo?

But Alfred surprises him by laughing. "Okay, you win. You totally beat me. Even?"

Matthew smiles back, relieved. It is positively miraculous that Alfred doesn't judge him as harshly as he's always judged himself. "Next time, you leave my Jell-O alone. Or at least ask permission."

"Yes, Mother."

When they do the dishes together, Matthew washing and Alfred drying, Alfred keeps opening and closing his mouth, then shaking his head at himself quickly. Finally, Matthew snaps. "Alfred, if you have something to say, just say it."

"I stood up to him." Alfred blurts. "My father."

Matthew stops scrubbing the sauce ladle, turning to stare at his suitemate. Alfred stares back expectantly, the proud expression on his face slightly hesitant, as though he will apologize for it in a moment if Matthew so desires.

Matthew wants to congratulate Alfred, to say "Alfred, you deserve your own future, and I'm proud of you for the courage you showed in grasping it." He wants to say "You've made the right decision, and your father will realize it soon enough." He wants to applaud him with all the considerable eloquence at his disposal, but that would be entirely too complicated, and Alfred probably wouldn't hear half of it. So instead he wordlessly holds out the spaghetti ladle as a trophy.

Alfred seems to get it.

And then it hits Matthew, forcefully, that this strange, enigmatic, magnificent boy has just risked his entire paternal relationship on his advice. He isn't sure why this is so significant; but he feels it, the enormity of being listened to, of giving an opinion that is valued. Angelique, Francis, Gil—pretty much all of Matthew's friends have been giving the advice lately, and everybody else pretty much ignoring him, but for this incredible boy who stands before Matthew clutching a spaghetti ladle like it's the greatest prize in the world.

And Matthew thinks, I love this boy.

And then Matthew thinks, Oh god. This is bad.

* * *

><p>"I think I'm falling in love with Alfred Jones."<p>

Angie makes a strangled noise. She says, quietly, "What."

* * *

><p>"Hi, Alfred, it's your mother. Arthur told me…Arthur told me to say thank you."<p>

There is a long pause. "And I wanted to say it too. You're right, you were so right, that he needed help, and you shouldn't have had to…we're the parents, Alfred, and we should have…he isn't your responsibility. And I'm sorry for not standing up for him—for the both of you—against your father. I should have…I'm a terrible mother. I'm sorry you had to be the one to check Arthur in, but he says thank you, and so do I. And so will your father, one day."

Alfred feels the tears spill over his eyes, and he lets them run down his face, just like his father taught him not to.

"This was the right thing to do. Arthur is living in the hospital indefinitely. Thanks to you. Thank you. I love you. And I'm sorry."

The voicemail ends, and Alfred tells the uncomprehending phone: "That would have meant a lot more if you'd said it in front of Dad."

But Arthur is going to be okay now. Thanks to Alfred. He knows he should feel like a hero, and maybe he does, a little bit; but mostly he feels like shit. Because, well, his brother is schizophrenic. And the best he can do is send him to the doctors. And he did so three years later than he should have.

And Matthew probably assumes that Alfred confessed to applying to medical school. As if—Alfred doesn't have the courage to stand up for himself. For Arthur, sure. But himself?

He isn't that selfish.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes<strong>: That Baudelaire quote from Francis is translated as follows: "A book is a garden, an orchard, a storehouse, a party, a company by the way, a counselor, a multitude of counselors." Words to live by, friends. Also, I could only find the English version of that quote, and so I babelfished it into French. If there are any French speakers or Baudelaire enthusiasts out there, please PLEASE correct my inevitable fail.

I hope I'm not moving to fast with the love epiphany. As Angie will argue next chapter, they've hardly known each other for two months. Don't worry, I'm not ignoring the facts of reality here. They will be addressed. I'm gettin' to 'em.

Please review!


	7. Chapter 7

**The Selfish Sickness  
><strong>by Positively

.

DISCLAIMER: Hidekaz Himaruya owns the characters of Axis Powers Hetalia. Neil Gaiman owns his words from _American Gods. _He's pretty boss, you guys. Go read.

I am so, so sorry this is late, guys! I can't believe it took me this long. You'd think that having more free time would make one more productive, but you'd be wrong. Next chapter will hopefully come both sooner and longer.

.  
>.<p>

* * *

><p>When she has recovered herself, Angie says, "You two would never work."<p>

Matthew is discouraged. Angie's boobs are obviously defective, because most of the other females he'd ever met would have gone chick-flick on his ass and helped set them up. Where was the Estrogen Brigade when you needed it? "Why?"

"Matthew," she says gently, "he likes Ronald Reagan."

"I'm so far gone that it doesn't even matter!"

"You say that now, but soon enough your brain will let up on all that oxytocin it's spewing out. And then you'll remember that his belief in trickle-down economics is _really fucking annoying_."

"His political views don't say anything about who he is. It says more about what his parents believed."

"Even though you and Francis were raised by your uber-Catholic mother, you're about as atheistic as humans can get. The fact that he believes whatever his parents told him to is a sign that he doesn't think for himself, and you don't get along with people like that."

"I feel like we're being unfair. It's easy to bash Republicanism and religion when nobody's around to defend them."

"You want me to call up Al so he can come defend his views? Yeah, that's what I thought. My point is, right now this is mostly hormonal. He's hot, I'll give you that. But you don't know him well enough to be in love."

But...but you're not listening, Matthew thinks. When I see his neck, I want to lean over and kiss it. When I see his hand, I want to reach out and hold it. I could write poetry about the sound of his footsteps or the warmth of his breath. I could tell you how his eyes are like unto sapphires and his hair golden wheat, or I could list all the times he's read my mind, every night he's kept me awake playing video games. Listen to what I'm saying, he thinks. Listen. "I really, really like him."

"Why?"

Alfred would have listened. He would have understood. He would have heard all the right words in Matthew's bumbled confession, just like he knew about Nietzsche in the fridge and saw a trophy in the spaghetti ladle. And he would listen, and take his advice, just like when he had stood up to his father. That's why. That's exactly why. He listens.

"Matthew, you've hardly known him for two months. You have a crush on him, yes. Anybody can see that." Dammit. "But you can't say things like, 'I think I'm falling in love,' at this point. I mean, what are you, a teenage girl with her first serious crush?"

"Fine. You're right. I should have said 'I have a crush on Alfred Jones.'" Angie frowns at the insincerity in his tone. "But it's not like it matters, anyway. I don't think he's into guys. Even if he were, I still probably wouldn't have a chance."

"Don't talk like that, Mattie. I don't think _he's_ good enough for _you_."

"What? Really?" But Alfred is so…Alfred. He deserves whomever he wants.

"I don't trust him with you. You're fragile."

"No I'm not! I've lived through things he can't even imagine—"

"Exactly. He's sheltered. He hasn't had any reason to find out that humans are breakable. He's clumsy and insensitive. I don't think you'd make a good match."

* * *

><p>The discovery is less earth-shattering than one might think, and far, far more painful. The Matthew of B.A.E. (Before Alfred Epiphany) had noticed things like Alfred's crooked right canine and his worn shoelaces and the way he ended his laughter with the same little gasp of breath every time. Matthew's obsession has been a matter of fact for two months, and falling for him hasn't changed the observation much.<p>

But A.A.E. (After Alfred Epiphany) is when those things start to burn Matthew from the inside. His desire is now more emotionally based than physical, and the snaggletooth makes him want to _own _Alfred's mouth as well as kiss it. He wants to buy Alfred new shoelaces, and milk and eggs and garbage bags too, like they live together in some beautifully dysfunctional family. The little observations break his heart, because you really shouldn't fall in love with somebody based on his ringtone (Mission Impossible theme), or his lack of un-holed socks, or the way he leaves his shoes lying around wherever the fuck he feels like. But every little fact of Alfred makes Matthew fall a little more in love, and it's completely ridiculous, and so beautiful he never wants it to stop, and so horrible it feels like being skinned alive.

"Hey, hey, Matthew. How many atoms are there in a guacamole?"

"I don't know, Alfred. How many."

"Avocado's number! Get it? Because the number of atoms in a mole is Avogadro's number, so in a guaca-mole is Avocado's number, because guacamole comes from avocados."

"Yes, Alfred, I got it."

"Okay, how about this one. Why did the bear dissolve in water?"

"Why."

"Because it was polar! Don't put Kumajirou in the bath, got it? Okay, last one. If you're not part of the solution…"

Matthew pretends to sigh in exasperation. "You're part of the precipitate."

"Yay, you got that one! These are coming from the MCAT study book I just borrowed from the library. See? That's the M-Cat. He's my study-buddy." Alfred points to the illustration of a cat on the page before him. "So far he hasn't helped much, but he tells some pretty good jokes."

And Alfred is sitting on their couch, with one leg tucked up underneath him, laughing his wild laugh and—yes, there it is—the little gasp afterwards, and his toenails need clipping and his hair is slightly mussed and the top half of his left ear is sticking out and he's talking about this corny cartoon science-cat like it's a real person, and it's positively unbelievable how much Matthew wants him. Not just his body, but _him_, Alfred, the person.

It's stupid and unspeakably lovely.

But Matthew endures, and it gets easier to handle as the days pass. Because what choice does he have but to adjust? Soul-hurting desire becomes routine, and he learns to cherish the tragedy. He's a bit of an emotional masochist, and upon reflection realizes that this is particularly unfortunate, given his family history. But that, in and of itself, is just another tragedy to cherish.

* * *

><p>Matthew climbs into the kitchen from the roof one afternoon, savoring the last bits of autumn before the cold sets in. He'd been trying to study for biology and ended up watching the sky (which, as any <em>normal <em>person—i.e. someone who isn't Alfred—will tell you, is infinitely more interesting than memorizing the musculature of cats). Eduard is sitting at the table, eating without his laptop for once. He usually takes his lunch into the living room, and Matthew's confusion must show on his face because Eduard explains, "They're watching reality TV. You know how it is."

Matthew nods and sits across from him. "I can't stand reality TV. Not all that fond of television, actually; only a few good directors are worthwhile. Books are infinitely better at creating a mood."

Eduard sighs. "You're not all that fond of reality, either, are you?"

"What?"

"Your romanticism. Don't even deny it, it's your most obvious personality flaw. Maybe more of a humanity flaw. I mean, anyone who takes anything seriously has this problem, which is everyone, which is why I say it's a humanity flaw." He looks frustrated with himself.

"I'm afraid I don't really…"

"Listen. Life isn't directed, Matthew. We aren't actors, and we don't have a script. The lighting isn't going to evoke the specific mood your dialogue calls for; fitting background music isn't going to accompany your every action. You don't have a narrator whose word-choice and syntax dictate the tone of your story. Life is neither a book nor a movie. It's better. It's real."

Matthew taps his fingers nervously on the table. He had no idea that Eduard felt so strongly about things like this (or that he could express it so eloquently). Embarrassingly, he can't help but feel that this conversation would have more significance if it were held at nighttime. "Reality is overrated, if you ask me. It's boring and absurd."

Eduard walks to the window and stares at the sky. "Matthew...those clouds up there? They're just clusters of water vapor. Each molecule has one oxygen atom and two hydrogen atoms. They have weak to medium intermolecular forces of attraction, which is why they are held together in a liquid rather than a gas or solid."

"I am aware of what water vapor is, Eduard."

"And those flowers over there?" He points to a patch of wildflowers in the courtyard, a bouquet of round petals shot through with deep violet, hazy pink and vibrant red. "Those are just the genitals of another life form."

Matthew gives him a look that says Get On With It.

"You can write odes to clouds and flowers and flame and gemstones, but the truth is that clouds are just water vapor, and flowers plant-uteruses, and fire the oxidation of hydrocarbons, and gemstones an arrangement of salts in a lattice structure. What I'm getting at is that romance isn't everything. Reality is actually beautiful all on its own. Reality is, in fact, the_ source_ of all beauty. Warping it to fit some subjective ideal accomplishes the opposite of beautification."

Matthew turns this thought over in his mind. "In some ways you have a point, but I wouldn't call it warping. I'd call it enhancing."

Eduard shrugs and sits back down to his lunch. "I guess I don't really bother with idealism."

Matthew shrugs back awkwardly. "I guess I do."

"Agree to disagree, and all that."

"Yeah."

* * *

><p>Later that evening, Angie stops by the suite to hang out with Matthew. She ends up ignoring him completely in favor of kicking Gilbert's ass at some first-person shooter. Matthew exchanges a meaningful look with Alfred. "Should I be worried?" he asks with a confidential brush of air against Alfred's ear.<p>

"Nah, you're her brother. She'll always love you more. But, quite honestly, you're not much of an opponent when it comes to video games."

Matthew smacks him upside the head.

"Haha! I win again!" she crows triumphantly, holding her controller high in the air.

"Hell, no! Rematch!"

"Again? Damn, you just_ like_ getting your ass handed to you or something."

Angie has always been a strong woman. She never really had the chance to be a girl, though if she had then perhaps that strength would be diminished today. The first five years of her life were spent in the relatively blissful peace of Seychelles, but financial reasons—she thinks—forced her parents and siblings to immigrate to the Congo area. She isn't sure where exactly, as she was very young at the time, and nobody was even sure where the borders were anymore, and there aren't any records to clear the mystery up.

And there's nobody left alive to remind her.

The civil war took her parents' and brother's lives violently, before her very eyes. It then stole her sisters by sickness, a slower, malingering death that took children down by the thousands as surely as the guns did. Angie miraculously survived for a year in one of the refugee camps, and was smuggled to America by a well-meaning photojournalist.

Then, as if she hadn't been through enough already, Angie's adoptive father died of a heart attack, landing her in the New York Social Service System. She was passed from foster family to foster family until she was eight, and Marianne adopted her.

At this point, Matthew was twelve and had been living with his mother's declining sanity for over five years. Vaguely, he remembers his sense of apocalyptic dread when Marianne announced her intentions to adopt a daughter. Was he jealous of Marianne's affection? Was he afraid that this sibling would disappear as painfully as Francis had before?

No. He was terrified for this hypothetical little girl. What if she didn't understand the Rules for Dealing with Mom? The stakes were very high. The consequences dire. How could he ever want that for an eight-year-old child?

He doesn't like to think about that time. Angie regards those years as a huge improvement to the bloodbath of the Congo and later the slightly less literal bloodbath of the foster-care system; but they had been pretty bad for Matthew.

They were about to get worse.

He protected her as best he could, making sure she knew to be quiet at night, and to never, ever cry. Marianne hated crying more than anything. Her rages were getting worse and worse, to the point where she'd snap at the slightest provocation. Angie doesn't remember Matthew's coaching all that well; she describes that time as "chaotic" and "confusing"; but never terrifying and exhaustingly unpredictable, the way Matthew does. He considers it one of his greatest successes that he was able to shield her from the worst of it.

Two years of her wild mood swings, and then one more of her loud despair. He was still just a boy when she died.

"Aw, fuck! You cheated!"

"Did not! You're such a sore loser, Gil."

"Shut the fuck up, Angelique."

"What did you just call me?"

Alfred takes Matthew by the elbow and leans down to whisper in his ear, "My room." Matthew fights down a shiver at that, though obviously Alfred is just dying to get away from these two psychos.

"Good plan."

* * *

><p>They settle in on the bed, Alfred lounging along the length and Matthew curled at his feet. Sounds from the common room filter in: gunshots, cheering, clicking controllers. Neither bothered to turn on the light, so they vegetate in peaceful dimness for a few minutes. Alfred considers the man at his feet. Sometimes Matthew is too quiet to put into words; he defies them, really. But today Alfred has a name to give him: unfathomable. That's what Matthew is. Unfathomable.<p>

"Do you believe in God?" asks Matthew, from the foot of the bed.

So deep you can't see the bottom.

"Oh, so we're actually going to have this discussion now?"

"All good friends do, eventually. At least if one of them is a philosophy major. But...you have to be friends first. It says a lot about who you are."

Alfred considers his answer carefully, afraid that Matthew will dislike what this says about who he is. "I suppose so. In a way. I don't know if I believe in the Judeo-Christian-Islam omnipotent complexity in the sky that will judge me for my sins at death. To me...I think that at some point, science just can't go any further. Like, to explain particle motion and quarks and physics, at some point the answer has to be 'That's just the way it is.' Natural laws, I guess you could call it. Causality. That point, when all we can say is 'That's just how the universe is,' I think that's where we'd find god. And not really the kind of god most people think of. You know?"

"Yeah, yeah, like, It's so simple we can't even get our brains around It. Simplicity. Causality. That's very much like Einstein's philosophy."

"Yeah, I know," Alfred says, gesturing at his Einstein poster. "I think the two of us would have gotten on pretty well. Though I don't see why he would give me the time of day, so never mind. I guess I think I would have obsessively stalked him pretty well."

Matthew snorts and readjusts his calves, unfurling ever so slightly. His feet, curiously enough, are now hooked around Alfred's ankles. Alfred wishes he could sit up to see how that happened, but somehow knows that Matthew would be scared into silence by eye contact. "What about your parents?"

"They're about as devout as Episcopals can be. Which is not very. I mean, they're not Baptist or anything."

Matthew lapses into confused silence. He's from Canada, where everyone is pretty laid back; he probably doesn't understand the theologistics of varying denominations.

"And you?" Alfred asks, not really caring.

"Raised Catholic. These days I'm...uh...how would a wordsmith put it...'I believe in an empty and godless universe of causal chaos, background noise, and sheer blind luck.'"

"Wow, man, that's kind of a downer. Who said that?"

"Neil Gaiman. From one of his books. Taken dreadfully out of context, I'm afraid, but the words are apt for my intention."

"Ah." Alfred's leg is falling asleep underneath Matthew's, so he shifts a bit to the left. Matthew stretches out some more, resting his left wrist over the right. His hands are just by Alfred's hip, relaxed as a sleeper's, fingers curling up ever so slightly. "So you're a nihilist."

"Pretty much, yeah."

"Don't you ever...get obscenely depressed by that?"

"Um, yeah. But life goes on, regardless."

"Oh." Alfred tries to imagine living with the knowledge that nothing matters. Sometimes he thinks too much about it, and it's enough to send him to his bed for the afternoon, with little energy to do much besides listen to Elliott Smith and sigh. "I think I'd get tired of that."

"Hm," Matthew replies noncommittally, and they sit in a companionable silence afterwards. The others are still in the common room, playing their game, laughing as they virtually kill each other, and Alfred has a sudden flash of insight as to how stupid it all must seem to Unfathomable Matthew.

"I bet you're jealous," Alfred says, apropos of nothing.

"Every day," Matthew replies without missing a beat. His glasses flash in the darkness.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong> Matthew and Angie are wrong, of course, about Alfred not knowing about human breakability. Not that they have any reason to know about his situation with Arthur. He is pretty clumsy though, and Matthew pretty breakable. It's a valid concern.

Sorry if any of the religious discussion made anyone uncomfortable. I don't really mind if you're super-religious or the biggest atheist around—I respect both viewpoints. Though I obviously lean one way, I'm not about to diss you for leaning the other. Also, a big part of this fic is spiritual uncertainty, so don't assume that this is going to try to convince you to change your beliefs. Everything is unknowable and uncertain. Everyone's entitled to their own shot in the dark.

Please review!


	8. Chapter 8

**The Selfish Sickness  
><strong>by Positively

.

**DISCLAIMER:** Hidekaz Himaruya owns the characters of Axis Powers Hetalia.

Okay, so I suck at updating in a timely manner. But I'm moving next week, so there's all this RL stress that's been getting to me, and that has been and will be interfering with writing time all during August. However, I have been mulling over a new project on the sly; previews are posted on my tumblr as an apology for sucking. Thanks guys ;A;

.  
>.<p>

* * *

><p>Matthew is the kind of man who is constantly apologetic for his very existence. It's an easy habit to shrug off, call him Canadian, eh, just a nationalistic quirk, a charming little personality flaw to box and bow and call his own. But there are repercussions.<p>

"Sorry!" he calls to a stranger, having brushed her shoulder on the way to class.

"Sorry! So, so sorry. Really sorry," he says, extremely flustered, to the cashier who tried to hand him his change and coffee at the same time, which predictably ended with coins scattered everywhere. Now he's hastily gathering the coins in his palm, but a few have dropped to the floor, and as he bends to retrieve them, his backside bumps into the customer behind him.

"Sorry sorry," he says, more flustered than ever, apologizing both for holding up the line and the inappropriate touching.

"Sorry," he whispers to his professor for being twenty seconds late.

"Sorry," he jumps out of the way so Gilbert can get to the refrigerator.

"Sorry," he replies reflexively when Alfred says he apologizes too much.

Sometimes people are really stressful, Matthew thinks.

"Today was awful," he complains to Angie. They are in her tiny dorm room, and Katyusha is tapping away on her computer in the corner. He explains about the coffee and being late to class and just generally being in the way of everyone in the whole world. "Do you ever feel like that? Like you're the most awkward and unwanted person to have ever existed?"

Angie laughs. "No. Because that would be ridiculous."

"I'm pathetic," Matthew says, flopping onto her bed and sounding thoroughly pathetic.

"Oh, Mattie. You're mostly just ridiculous." Matthew gives her a look that says Not Helping. "Oh, come on. You're just having an off day."

An off day for anybody else might merit the word "just," but for someone as deeply apologetic as Matthew, it's kind of a big deal. He feels genuine remorse for any inconvenience he causes, and potent anxiety about others' opinion of him. Is he liked? Is he hated? Should he be friendlier? Should he give up and leave everyone alone and become a hermit and move to the desert? Every little uncomfortable moment magnifies in his mind and adds up with others, a compilation of vaguely disquieting and/or embarrassing social failures and stress and augh.

"Get over yourself, Mattie. You're the only person in the world who cares about how awkward you are."

"I guess that's comforting?"

"Yeah, it was supposed to be."

"I think you're a lovely person," Katyusha murmurs. She had ceased typing minutes ago, but both Matthew and Angie had been too absorbed in themselves to notice. "You're very kind. There was that time you took your friend home when he drank too much. You didn't have to do that." She blushes and stutters, "I'm sorry to, ah, 'butt in' on your conversation, but I thought you should know, Matthew. Everybody likes you. You're too sweet not to like."

Sometimes people are really wonderful, Matthew thinks.

"Well, there you go, Matthew. You're too sweet to dislike, so stop stressing."

But not stressing becomes difficult when he arrives back at the suite, and Alfred and Gilbert are having a huge blowout in the common room.

"You're the one who leaves all your shit everywhere," Gilbert is saying. "Whose shoes are always lying around tripping people up? Yours! Who leaves food out on the table all night? You! Who puts the X-Box games back in the wrong cases? You! Your shit is everywhere, Jones, and all I'm saying is that we're all sick of it."

"I am not the reason this place looks like a dump! You're the reason for all the…the_ general spillage _that goes on here. You're always drinking beer, and your friends come over and eat nothing but pasta with tomato sauce. Have you _seen_ the couch cushions? That's all you, Gil."

"General spillage? I don't know what you're talking about, but—hey, there's Birdie. Tell him, man. He's the one leaving his shit around, tell him you're sick of it."

"Don't tell Matthew what to say! What the fuck is wrong with you? He doesn't have any place in this argument!" Alfred's tone takes a turn for the sharper. His expression is fierce and biting.

"God, I don't know why I would ask his opinion, I mean, it's not like he _lives here_ or anything—"

"So? You're the one with the problem—"

"Guys," Matthew cuts in quietly.

"-and you're the one responsible for most of the damage, like I said—"

"Guys."

"So don't you _dare_ force him into this conversation, when clearly he is the opposite of confrontational-" Matthew takes this as his cue to leave the room. He can still hear them shouting, and now they're arguing about him and his shyness, which is if possible even more stressful. Before long, Eduard is at his door.

"Do you want to make them shut up?"

"You can do that?"

"No, _you_ can do that."

Eduard leads him back to the common room. They're yelling over each other now, and Matthew can't for the life of him understand a single word. "Now," he says, "Just yell something at them. Shut up, or something."

Matthew, too polite, just clears his throat. "Guys."

"Louder."

"_Guys._"

"Yeah?" Alfred turns to face Matthew with an expression that might have been amusingly sheepish if not for the lingering traces of ire. It's somewhere between petulant and aggressive.

"Can you two please stop fighting? I need to be studying. Alfred, you do leave things lying around a lot. I personally have no problem with it, but if Gilbert does, you should respect that."

"Ha!"

"And _you_, Gilbert, need to be more careful about stains. We'll all get charged at the end of the year for the ones in the common room. So you need to cut back on all the…general spillage."

Before he can overanalyze and freak out over their expressions of shock, Matthew calmly walks out of the room and down the hall. Inside he is a little shaky, but also: _I feel like a badass._

* * *

><p>After about an hour of goofing off online (yeah, he said he needed to study, but when you have the internet that is highly unlikely), Alfred appears at his door. He won't meet Matthew's eyes and keeps working his toe on the threshold. "Hey, Matt, can I talk to you?"<p>

"Sure, Alfred." He hurriedly pulls up the paper he should have been writing for Modern Intellectual History.

"I'm really sorry about yelling like that. You know, bothering you and letting Gilbert bring you into it like that."

"Not a big deal."

"Really? Cool. Because, you know, Matthew…" Alfred still seems really uncomfortable, despite Matthew's easy forgiveness. It's surprising to see him so uncertain.

"Yeah?"

Alfred looks up from the floor to make eye contact. "Wanna play Monopoly?"

"I _hate _Monopoly," Matthew groans with accidental honesty.

"Not the way I play it." And good god, what Matthew wouldn't do to smother that wicked grin with a kiss.

They manage to get Gilbert and Eduard in on the game. The set is missing both a large number of Chance cards and all the place-markers, so they end up using the weapons from their Clue set. Alfred gets more and more ridiculous as the game wears on, clearly trying to diffuse the tension from the earlier argument, culminating in armed robbery. He holds up Matthew, the banker, with his tiny revolver.

"This is a stick-up! Give me all your money or I'll shoot!"

Matthew, unable to resist Alfred at the best of times, cannot possibly refuse to play along with this beautiful clown. "J'accuse! Alfred, in the living room, with the revolver!"

"You guys are retarded," Gilbert mutters, and leaves the game.

The next day, Matthew comes back from classes to see a name added to their door's dry erase board: General Spillage. Underneath this title is a small illustration of an army general with a stained uniform and a drink in his hand. Matthew smiles and unlocks the door.

* * *

><p>It's getting too cold to go out on the roof, so Matthew starts hanging out in Alfred's room whenever he needs to call someone.<p>

"Hello, Francis. How are you doing?"

"Same as always, Matthew. Same as always."

"Uh, good."

"No, not really. Oh, but there is something…my bank account is running a bit low."

Oh. When their mother had died, Matthew and Angie had moved in with Michael, Matthew's father, for a year and a half. Then Francis returned from Paris, sober and jaded and broke. They all lived together for a while until Marianne's will was unearthed and interpreted.

Everything went to Francis.

They'd all assumed that there wasn't much to give. But as it turned out, Marianne's parents had met with some small fortune across the Atlantic, and had chosen to bequeath it to their long lost daughter. In a fit of childish pique, or maybe something deeper that only she would understand, Marianne never claimed the money. The account was included in her will, though.

Francis used it as an excuse to live the life of an heir, i.e. refused to get a job, and petitioned for guardianship of Matthew and Angie. Michael agreed with little fuss: he'd never had to take care of kids before, and was a bit baffled by their presence. Michael had been preparing to put Marianne's old house on the market, but Francis decided to move himself and his new charges in instead.

Obviously, the money had to end eventually. But it's still a bit startling to hear Francis talk about it. "Maybe you ought to get a job?" Matthew suggests timidly.

"Little brother. A job is death without dignity."

"Okay, well, so is starving on the street."

A sigh. "I will consider it." They hang up.

Matthew presses Alfred's pillow over his face.

"Something wrong?" Alfred is sitting at his computer, reading a Wikipedia article on boson particles and eating strawberries. Matthew has avoided looking over at him for obvious reasons.

"My brother's running out of money, but I don't know if he's workforce material."

"Oh. Well…a lot of people aren't. But they manage. I'm sure he'll be fine." He pauses thoughtfully, and Matthew makes the mistake of removing the pillow and glancing over at him. Honestly, is it appropriate to make out with the strawberries you're about to eat? Isn't that a cruel and unusual death? "What exactly is it between you and your brother?"

God, that would take hours to explain. "What…what exactly do you mean?"

"I'unno, it just seems like you two have a really weird relationship."

"We don't hate each other, if that's what you think."

Alfred finally finishes with the strawberries, much to Matthew's relief. "Exactly. Like, you don't seem to really get along, but you're always talking anyway. I guess I'm just curious about…the nature of it."

"Well…our mom died when I was young, so he's been taking care of me since I was fifteen-ish. But he's not very nurturing." Well, neither was she, he was used to fending for himself, but still. "I guess one might say that I…resent him. He's too much older than me to really consider a 'friend,' but he never much acted like an authority, either."

"Hm. That's kinda sad."

"Why? What's your relationship with _your_ brother like?"

"Affectionate dislike. Nothing like yours. It just makes me sad when…when people should be close but aren't."

"Who says I should be close to my brother?"

"Well, I mean, your siblings are the only other people in the world who can understand how your parents screwed you over. You know? Such common ground. Seems like a waste to pretend it doesn't matter."

But it does matter. It matters all too much.

* * *

><p>Matthew wakes up on his knees. He is in a huge cavernous place with stone floors and statues and eerie echoes. Torches lined up against the wall flicker and gutter with unseen drafts. Before and behind him are wooden benches, cold but shining. Beads are tangled in his bony fingers, wrapped around his wrist, looping up his forearms.<p>

The knowledge that this is St. Mary's, his childhood church, dawns slowly and undramatically. His folded hands rest on the back of a very familiar pew. If he were to look behind him, he would see the organ and the choir loft where he used to sing. He looks up at the altar, and meets Jesus Christ's unseeing gaze. "God," he says, but it is a lonely sound that echoes, holds no respite against the emptiness.

He stands and walks toward the back of the church and it takes both an eternity and no time at all.

Through some magical dream logic, Matthew knows that the huge double doors that lead outside are locked. And suddenly he's a child, banging on the wood, shouting "Mama!" And the door falls open, emitting him like water through a sudden blast-hole, and he stumbles into his mother's room but there's already her blood everywhere, on the sheets of her bed, on her body, wrapped around her wrists like a rosary-

When he wakes up, he thinks he's still hearing the police sirens from when he called 911: "Help, my mom, her wrists—" But as he gains lucidity, he realizes that the sound is less of a wail and more of a steady_ RRRRRRRRRRRRRR_.

Ah. The fire alarm.

He stumbles out of his room, in nothing but boxers and a flimsy undershirt, and meets Alfred in the hall.

"Fuck fire drills, dude," Alfred grumbles sleepily. He's got a bright red quilt slung over his shoulders. As they approach the staircase, it drags on the floor like an especially impractical cape.

"Were you waiting for me out here?"

"Yeah, had to make sure the fire didn't get you."

"Um, Alfred, this is probably just a drill."

Alfred trips over a step. "Well, duh. But the point is to practice your fire-escaping skills. And that includes saving your friends."

"Would you have dragged me out of my bed if I'd decided to sleep through the drill?"

"Probably."

Matthew had forgotten that it was November until they step outside and his feet literally ache with the cold. Usually he can manage well enough with these sorts of temperatures, but his pajamas leave much to be desired in the way of heat insulation.

Their RA directs everyone to stand in a line so he can count and make sure everybody "escaped." Matthew looks up at the building, smokeless and fireless. He almost wishes it would burst into flame, so he could warm his hands or something.

He can see what used to be his reception spot on the roof. Yeah, it's perfectly visible from the courtyard. Oops.

Alfred is chattering about his Modern Physics class and the three possible fates of the universe—heat death, stagnation, or Big Crunch—and he's starting to get into Chaos Theory and the S variable when he notices Matthew's blue lips and clicking teeth. Without a hitch in his impassioned science-geek monologue, Alfred opens his blanket, steps closer to Matthew, and wraps them both up tight.

Matthew warms his cold nose in Alfred's neck. He thinks he hears Gilbert snickering in the crowd, but he's too drowsy and unsettled from his dream to care.

* * *

><p>Alfred is acting strange.<p>

Well, strang_er._

He's always been on the odd side, and most of that is just his wild vivaciousness spilling through the seams of common human behavior. What's strange is that it seems like he's trying to rein it in a bit these days.

Instead of bursting into his room and demanding a game of chess, Alfred exercises basic courtesy and knocks. Or, instead of slinging an arm around Matthew's shoulders and leaning close to whisper in his ear during class, he stays quiet and contained in the neighboring seat. He's still friendly, but more hesitant to touch. Polite, reserved. It makes Matthew more awkward in turn, as he had always counted on Alfred's easy affection to steer their friendship. Now that Alfred's drawing back, Matthew flounders at the reins.

And when it's time to part ways before Thanksgiving break, he seems like he's about to hug Matthew, like he once did when they made goodbyes. But now he draws back, awkwardly straightens a tie he isn't wearing, ducks his head to avoid eye contact, and leaves. Matthew wonders what's wrong and wants to apologize. It worries him that something is bothering Alfred, something that seems specific to Matthew.

And it's just weird.

Well, _less _weird_. _Which is comparatively weird.

* * *

><p>"How is work suiting you, Francis?" Angie asks politely over dinner on Thursday. The two candles at the center of the table are too bright; the wine is strong, almost vinegary; their forks scrape gratingly on too-white plates.<p>

He smiles. "Not well, I'm afraid. Without even a technical degree…the only options available are menial and low-wage."

"How many have you been through?" It's savage, but very satisfying. Angie drops her fork and glares at Matthew. He tries to dredge up guilt, and finds only resentment.

"Three. The coffeeshop and the grocery store…were not friendly to me. I feel like…" And now he's getting that expression, the pity-me expression, the everybody's-against-me face. "I can't help but feel that the world is not made for people like me."

"Don't say that, Francis," Angie murmurs sympathetically. "You'll find a job that suits you eventually. I mean, you seem to be happy at the bookstore, right?"

"Happy?" He chuckles mirthlessly, and Matthew ignores the urge to stab his hand with a fork. "No, I don't think so. The books are bearable, but. The routine of it is numbing. The waking up at the same time every morning, doing the same things over and over, it's just awful. My mind rebels at stagnation, you know."

Matthew snorts. "What a fucking martyr."

* * *

><p>"I cannot believe you would say that, Matthew. You're an ass."<p>

"Angie, he was going on and on about how the whole world is against him, and that's just stupid. That kind of attitude will only make him less and less likely to try. And the problem isn't with the rest of the world, it's with _him_. He needs to accept that and change to succeed."

Angie walks faster, cutting him off. "Would it kill you to be a little sympathetic?"

"No, but it might kill him. No, I'm serious! I won't enable his grief-mongering. It's destroying any potential he's got for making his life better. If he were just less self-absorbed-"

"You're making me angry." Angie spins around. "And you are such a fucking hypocrite, like _you_ aren't so wrapped up in your own stupid brain to pay attention to anyone else in the world."

Matthew tries to argue, but she slams her bedroom door in his face.

He stays up all night, staring at the ceiling. He waits for a silly little text from Alfred that never comes. Before dropping off to sleep, he notices that it's a little weird that Francis hasn't come up the stairs for bed.

It won't occur to him until later that the only bedroom downstairs is their mother's. The room where she died.

* * *

><p>Thanksgiving dinner is lonely without Arthur.<p>

Alfred's mother tries to make conversation by asking him about classes and suitemates, but it feels hollow and contrived. His father is stone quiet. Alfred himself is nervous, but not in his usually babbling way. Instead he sits at the dinner table and pushes round his food and tries not to look as sick as he feels.

The argument from earlier is what's making him so uneasy. He can't remember precisely what was said because his anger is a loud, thought-drowning thing; but he can remember what started it. His father was adamant that Arthur should stay at the hospital for another month, just to be certain that he's ready for outpatient treatment. But Alfred had been calling Arthur every day, and heard him ask over and over when could he come home?

So then he started shouting at his parents.

Alfred can't help but feel that his opposition was unseemly and ungrateful. He owes a lot to his parents, doesn't he? What happened to Arthur isn't their fault, he shouldn't have blown up at them like that, they're older and wiser and know how to handle these things better. They deserve his cooperation.

He knows, though, that Matthew would not approve of this line of thinking. In fact, Matthew would disagree quietly and frequently and perhaps in five languages.

He doesn't know what to think anymore. Tomorrow, he'll go see Arthur in the hospital and ask his advice. And how mad is that, for him to be asking a legitimate Crazy Person what to think?

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> I got a question about my location, so here goes. I live in the United States. More specifically (and unfortunately), I am a citizen of South Carolina, where the state mottos are "Hot as Hell," "Thank God for Mississippi," and "Why Yes, We Are Those Backwards Backwoods Bastards Who Still Raise the Confederate Flag in Front of the State House." But hey, at least I'm moving to North Carolina in a week. I mean, they're not so different. But it's a step in a less crazy direction.

P.S. Angie's name was chosen as homage, but now it just makes me insanely jealous. I can't stop listening to Mick Jagger. MAUREEN IS NOT IN ANY SONG EVER. Except the ones where she's a two-timer.


	9. Chapter 9

**The Selfish Sickness  
><strong>by Positively

.

**DISCLAIMER:** Hidekaz Himaruya owns the characters of Axis Powers Hetalia. Ayn Rand owns her words, crazy though they may be.

In the spirit of NaNoWriMo, I'm going to try to finish this whole story (the whole thing!) this month. But because I'm nit-picky about editing when I have the luxury, I will most likely stagger the publish dates. Feel free to drop an insult in my tumblr ask-box to keep me going!

.  
>.<p>

* * *

><p>This is how the morning goes:<p>

Matthew wakes up three minutes before his alarm goes off at eight-thirty. He shuffles blearily into the kitchen, makes tea, sits at the table, wishes the floor were warmer. He thinks about finding a newspaper or going back to his room for a book, but it's early and he's sleep-lazy. Sometimes objects around the room will attract his sluggish gaze-the salt shaker, the aspirin, a crumb—and his eyes will just get so comfortable resting on that object, and he'll think about looking away but can't quite draw up the energy. The light will change by slow degrees, gray linoleum blurring into yellow into white. Matthew feels a clawing in his gut, the ache of witnessing something larger than himself, something that's truly magnificent even though (or maybe because) it happens every single day.

The dorm is quiet. Matthew watches the clock and waits for company that never arrives.

And he feels awfully lonely.

* * *

><p>"Biology, you suck," Matthew informs his textbook frowningly. "Yes, it is pretty incredible that everything is connected and explainable, but that is uninteresting and very, very hard to learn." He thinks about how enthusiastically Alfred would disagree, and pats the book consolingly. "But clearly my opinion isn't all there is."<p>

His final is only one week away, and he isn't entirely confident that he'll make a C, which is what he needs to pass the course, which is what he needs to graduate on time. Normally he would be studying with Alfred, but Alfred's "less weird" trend has continued since Thanksgiving. Things are uncomfortable and Matthew doesn't know what he did wrong. He gets a sinking feeling in his gut every time he thinks about it, so naturally he thinks about it all the time.

Besides Alfred, nothing else of interest has really happened. He's just busy in a very boring, soul-killingly monotonous way. Life in a nutshell.

"Oh yeah. Are you coming with us tonight?"

Matthew sinks lower into his chair, hoping that the question wasn't directed at him.

"Yeah, Birdie, I heard you talking to yourself. Don't sweat, I figure it's just Al rubbing off on you." Gilbert enters the common room. His sharky grin is mocking, but Matthew knows well enough by now that he's just being playful. "Are you coming with us?"

"Going with you where?"

"Oh, I thought Al would have invited you right away. Trouble in paradise?"

Matthew blushes more and mutters something unintelligible. Then says, "No, he hasn't. What are you talking about, anyway?"

"What about Angie?"

"What about her?"

"Well, she's going too. Did she invite you?"

"Invite me to what?"

"The Week-Before-Finals Blowout over on Fraternity Row."

Matthew sighs. "A frat party? Seriously?" Matthew will never understand how people as intelligent as Gilbert and Alfred can be so enthusiastic about things as pointless and vapid as parties. The people there are rarely good conversationalists.

Gilbert shrugs. "Hey, it's free booze." Maybe if Matthew thought about other people and their pain, more than just in the context of his own experiences, he would understand that escapism takes many forms. Not everyone buries themselves in academics, or spins a heroic tragedy out of their sad story. Not everyone hides away, distances themselves from humanity to minimize its impact.

Some people just go out with other people and get drunk.

"It's trashy. Why the hell is Angie going?"

Gilbert hums and flicks his eyes to Matthew's face. "Because I invited her." His gaze is intense and measuring. Matthew can see his eyes darting around, checking for tells: the corners of his eyes, lines between his brows, whether or not his lips are drawn or frowning. "Problem?"

Matthew is not an idiot and therefore knows that something is up. But he immediately dismisses it as unimportant because social politics never made sense to him, and he isn't about to start trying to understand humankind now.

"Whatever," he sighs. Gilbert looks briefly, inexplicably annoyed. "Um…I'll be studying the whole weekend, you know how it is."

Gilbert is already walking down the hall to his room, shaking his head. "Whatever, hermit. When you grow up, give me the address to your cave so I can visit sometime, yeah?"

Alfred trips into the room a few minutes later, his hair windswept and his clothes rumpled and his cheekbones godlike and his everything perfect. "Shit shit shit Mattie I am so fucked." Now his hair is fingerswept as he violently and repeatedly claws through it. He's still wearing gloves, which makes it that much more ridiculous.

"Uh, Al, you might want to slow down before you go bald."

"I don't have time to worry about premature baldness, dude." He looks over at Matthew, and then quickly away. The twitchiness makes Matthew think of an animal, wild-eyed and watchful. Maybe a doe or a zebra. Something with wide eyes and no defenses. "I'm failing French."

"Again? I thought you'd gotten back up to a B minus!"

"Well, yeah." Alfred collapses on the couch, notably not all up in Matthew's space. He tugs off his gloves—probably not leather, Alfred's not that classy or that posh, but _damn_ are they hot—with front teeth, shaking his arm when the left one won't slide off all the way. Then he unwinds his scarf and hangs it up over the back of the couch, where it stains the blue darker with dampness. "So then I failed two quizzes and a test. And now I'm doing badly again."

To his credit, he is ashamed enough to avoid eye contact. His cheeks, previously reddened with cold, now remain bright with embarrassment.

"I mean, I had more important things to do! Do you know how long the labs are in upper-level biology classes? And the research papers—"

"More important? Alfred, you can't graduate if you don't have two language credits. If you don't pass this class, you'll have to take a summer semester of French!"

"Fuck, you think I don't know that?" He's back to pulling out his hair now. "I need to make a ninety-two to pass. And I'm, uh…"

His voice gets kinda high and breathy, and it dawns on Matthew that he's choking up. _Alfred Jones _is choking up.

"I'm not really sure if I can…"

_Do I get up and comfort him? Do I sit here until he stops freaking out? Do I leave to save his pride? _You think that in a situation like this, the answer would just come to you. When somebody is legitimately having a crisis, though, is when your reaction is the most important—when the tears come out, when someone starts screaming. That's when you freeze up, because that's when your reaction really _matters. _Moments like these are the most likely to paralyze Matthew with indecision because he just knows that everything is significant and lasting, and that's just too much to handle.

So his initial choice is to do nothing. But an image comes to him, a memory from the day Francis left home.

"_Matthew, why are you sitting out here in the snow?" _He was beautiful, as always. His face was thin and gaunt and drawn, and somehow he always made it beautiful.

"_You and Mama. You were yelling__ so loud."_

And Francis leaned down, and brushed off the snow that had gathered on little Matthew's shoulders, on his hair, the tops of his knees. He leaned close to his brother as he worked, eyes downcast so that his lashes rested on high cheekbones. Their faces were so close; Matthew breathed in the frozen air that had already made the trip through Francis' lungs, and it thrilled him to be this close to his aloof, beautiful brother.

"_I don't think Mama and I will be yelling at each other so much anymore."_

Matthew, who had spent his whole life watching other people and decoding their tendencies, somehow knew what this meant. _"You're leaving us."_

Francis hadn't answered, just continued to act like a doting big brother.

"_Why are you so sad all the time?"_

"_Because, little brother," _and he moved his hands away, and the icy cold set in Matthew's bones and would never leave as Francis sighed, _"There is nothing on this earth worth being happy for."_

And he'd held poor little Matthew as he cried and cried over their sad story.

Matthew imagines that embrace in his head now, Francis' long nose burrowed against the vulnerable curve of his neck, one wide big-brother arm wrapped around his middle, the other hand resting on the small of his little-boy back.

It's probably the loudest he's ever heard the DUDE THAT'S A BAD IDEA YOU'LL TOTALLY REGRET IT voices shout in his head, but he eventually shuts them up and scoots over to Alfred's side of the couch. His face is buried in his hands, and he shakes his head back and forth.

"Sorry, it's just finals, I'm just really stressed—"

Tentatively, Matthew puts his hand on the back of Alfred's head and pushes it down onto his shoulder, and the two men hide their faces in each other's necks. He feels Alfred trying to gasp quietly, puffing along on his sternum. It's intimate, kind of, but the fact that they can't see each other's faces is distancing. This detachment leaves room for embarrassment, and poor Matthew has a mini-panic attack over what-if-Gilbert-comes-back-and-laughs-at-us-for-being-girls? Matthew draws Alfred's cold body closer.

And isn't this what everyone wants? When damaged people imagine having a girlfriend, a boyfriend, a brother or sister or loving parent, they just want somebody to hold them together while they're falling apart and say, "Baby, baby, everything's going to be okay. You poor brave thing." Back when he'd still hoped for straightness, Matthew had imagined a thousand different situations where a girl would find out about his tragic life, or he would for some reason just break down in front of her, and she would _understand, _and she would be there while he choked on his grief, and there would be a witness to his pain, to his great tragedy. He just wanted somebody to hold him.

The real deal is kind of anticlimactic, to be honest. But real. And maybe that makes it better, maybe that makes it worse.

* * *

><p>After two hours of intense study: "Qu'est-ce que tu vas faire ce week-end?"<p>

Alfred shifts on the bed, pulling his feet up on his thighs in the lotus position. "Ah, je vais dormir…je vais manger beaucoup…"

"Tu as besoin de…" Blank look. "C'mon, pour le français. Tu as besoin de…" Matthew is sitting on his pillow with his knees drawn up to his chest. This is the first time in two weeks since they've been on the same bed together. Not that he's counting or anything.

"Huh ? Je besoin de…"

"Non, you need a subject and a verb. Besoin is a noun. What's the verb?"

"_J'ai_ besoin de…d'étudier ! Pour…pour le français."

"Oui. Ne buvez pas l'alcool, n'allez pas aux fêtes."

"Hey, I understood that! Uh…j'ai compris cela."

"And then on Tuesday you're going to ace your exam, right?"

"Bien sur! Because you're awesome! Uh…parce que tu es…awesome. Thanks, Matthew. Seriously. I'd be in really deep shit right now if it weren't for you."

Matthew keeps his eyes down and picks at a loose thread on his comforter. "You should have asked for help sooner, Alfred." God help him, he sounds petulant.

"Obviously. But I'm glad this gave me an excuse to not go partying with Gilbert and Angie."

"I thought you enjoyed doing that."

Alfred makes a face. "I do. But everybody makes fun of me. They say I'm a weirdly eloquent drunk."

"You are awfully poetic. You called me a labyrinth of unanswerable questions last time."

"Seriously?" Alfred chews on his lip and looks at the ceiling. Matthew wants to go off on a tangent about how looking around stimulates memory because of the proximity of eye-movement neurons to those involved in memory, but restrains himself. "Sounds familiar."

"You know. Life is a labyrinth of unanswerable questions. That's all there is, yeah?"

"Has this become some kind of in-joke with us?"

"Why, of course. This is what philosophy majors do. We get our kicks out of mocking our own cosmic insignificance and existential uncertainty. It's a hoot, isn't it?"

Alfred laughs, maybe a little bitterly. "God, yeah. Maybe I should switch majors."

"Speaking of."

Alfred suddenly lies down, untangling his legs with difficulty and banging his head on Matthew's knee. It's a solid hit, but he doesn't mind. Matthew himself stretches out parallel. The door is open, so anybody could walk by and make accusations, and Matthew kind of wishes they would; it might give him some sense of vindication for this stupid crush.

"No, let's not speak of. Who are you voting for next year?"

Matthew puts some serious thought into the question before he remembers. "Uh, Canadian? I think citizenship is required for that."

"Oh my god, you're not American."

"Nope."

"Holy shit."

"Alfred, you knew that the day I met you."

"But I thought of it as 'Matthew is Canadian,' not 'Matthew isn't American.' It's just weird."

"It's weird to you that not everyone is American? You _Americans. _The _nerve._"

"Come on Mattie, don't be a bigot."

"I'll stop being a bigot when your country stops being a collective ignoramus."

"Mmm, not gonna happen any time soon."

It's like old times: the banter, the uncomfortable-yet-thrilling physical closeness, the kind of conversation that leaves you feeling clean and tired in your stomach and behind your eyes. Like the stale taste of reading a good book or the refreshment felt after a good cry. The conversation devolves to politics, and then Matthew makes a derogatory comment about libertarians and is met with silence.

"Oh god…you're not—"

"I am," Alfred replies solemnly.

"Like…American Libertarian? Like Ron Paul and Rand Paul?"

"Whoa, Rand doesn't count. He's too far right, more conservative than anything. Anti-choice, anti-gay rights. Reagan was cool, though, had the right idea about economics but was pretty liberal—libertarian—socially. From California. You know."

"Holy shit."

"Now, Matthew, don't be a bigot."

"I can't help it." A horrible thought dawned on him. "Oh god. I bet you read _Atlas Shrugged_ and _liked it_."

"_Atlas Shrugged_? You really think I'm the type of guy to pick up a doorstopper like that?"

"Okay, take my word for it. You would like it."

"Ha, I never said I haven't read it. Just that most people assume I haven't."

"Well, most people are asses. My point _is_, you liked its message, didn't you?"

"Of course. Anyone who doesn't is a Communist. Ow! Don't hit me! You're so passive aggressive, Christ. Anyway, Rand is great. Isn't everybody a fan of individualism?" _Americans_, Matthew thinks. "And the right to earning and deserving power. The majesty of the human race. It's so epic...'The question isn't who is going to let me; it's who is going to stop me.' Is that not the most empowering sentence ever written?"

"Okay, firstly: when you say 'deserving power.' Who is it taken away from? And who is entitled to it? Those born to it? Those whose circumstances are conducive to success? Argh, that's rhetorical, nobody can answer it. Secondly: it seems a little weird to me that you're such a fan of her self-empowerment message."

"What do you mean?"

"Ahem, _The Fountainhead: _'I could die for you. But I couldn't, and wouldn't, live for you.' Ring any bells?"

"Yeah?"

"Okay, so let's say your father is dying, and you could save his life if you gave him yours. His doctor is just unethical enough to allow this to happen as long as everyone consents. Would you?"

"Okay, I get your point. I see where this is going. Stop."

"Would you? No. He's old, you're young, he wouldn't want you to anyway. You wouldn't die for him. Fairly straightforward. Now, let's say-"

"Dude, I get it."

"Now, _let's say, _your father wants you to study business even though what you really want is to be a doctor. Your passion is the science of saving lives, that's your gift. Would you do what he told you? Would you live for him?"

Alfred doesn't say anything, but his fingers drum arhythmically on Matthew's shoulder. Matthew's not sure if this is a good sign or a bad one. "You shouldn't feel guilty at all, okay? That's what I'm getting at. I'm not trying to be a dick. I'm trying to tell you that you're doing the right thing." Alfred remains silent. Matthew, staring straight ahead, thinks about turning to gauge his expression: thoughtful or angry? But the atmosphere is very delicate, not least because this is the first time they've spoken seriously in a few weeks. Finally:

"I thought you hated Rand."

"Maybe she got a few things right. Not that dumbass 'Altruism is the ultimate evil,' god, does that ever make me want to punch babies, but the living life on your own terms. That's some good advice."

"Some things are more important than the self, Matthew. It's really short-sighted and selfish to think otherwise."

"But it's your life, Alfred. Your parents are just living in it."

"Do you really think that?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Well, maybe you're right."

Alfred's parents worry Matthew. And maybe it isn't his place to judge, because the way he's been raised has left him far from well-adjusted. Matthew knows this, but he can't help but condemn Alfred's obsessive self-sacrifice. His parents must love so conditionally. They must hold their love hostage.

What Matthew fails to understand—what he is unequipped to understand—is that some people are (and should be) worth more to you than you. That Alfred really and truly would rather see other people happy than see himself happy. It's a peculiar form of self-hatred, this belief that one and one's feelings/opinions/ideas are always and forever inferior to others'; but compliance and conformity are taught as law in most families and schools and social groups—even in those countries that practically worship the idea of individual freedom. Alfred has mirrored this cultural tendency to a T: he preaches the virtues of self-actualization, while in reality values selflessness and sacrifice.

There's a delicate balance between codependency and selfishness. And nobody seems to agree on what that is.

_If you saw Atlas, the giant who holds the world on his shoulders, if you saw that he stood, blood running down his chest, his knees buckling, his arms trembling but still trying to hold the world aloft with the last of his strength, and the greater his effort the heavier the world bore down upon his shoulders - What would you tell him?_

_To shrug._

* * *

><p>The week before finals passes much, much too quickly for anybody's liking. Except for maybe the professors. The professors get a real kick out of the general panic within the student body: "Isn't it funny how time always seems to drag when you have nothing to do, but as soon as you need the time for studying, it disappears twice as fast? I wonder why that is." Evil chuckle. The desperation is enough to drive Matthew into a bit of a funk. Maybe he's too sensitive, but signs of the crushing weight of academic angst are everywhere: the pinched expressions of students speedwalking from class to class to the library; the way nobody seems to laugh anymore; the dogged ignoring of the kind of colds that used to send students to their beds. Not now. It's all finals, all the time. It's like living in a cold, unhappy city. It's unbearable.<p>

"I feel like I'm living in a Ginsberg poem," he complains to Alfred the day before his first exam. "Everything is rushed and dirty and broken and nobody knows why."

"Matthew, no offense meant, but shut up. I'm trying to keep the entire sequence of major clades from like eight million phyla from falling out my ears."

But at least it's over quickly. Matthew strolls out of his bio exam, his final final, feeling fairly confident that he pulled off a B. Maybe even an A, depending on how stupid his classmates are. It's lovely to be fucking finished with this semester. All that's left is waiting for the grades, and his last semester, and then graduate school. You know, just six and a half years ahead of him. Anyway, Alfred will have left for his French exam half an hour ago; Matthew's decided to hang back until it's over, to congratulate him.

But when he gets back to the room, Angie is sitting on the couch with her face in her hands. She doesn't look up when he comes in.

"Hey, Angie. I thought we weren't leaving until three?"

"Maybe we should go sooner." And there it is, Matthew notices, bizarrely: even though her exams are over, there's still that note of desperate panic in her voice. Fear that drives humanity away.

Terror leeches Matthew of all energy. His knees go weak; hot fear flashes, trembling, down his fingers. He lacks the energy to form a question. "What happened."

"It's Francis."

Matthew collapses on the couch, falling into Angie, drawing comfort from her presence if not her words.

"He...he. Suicide. Attempted suicide. He's in the hospital-oh god. Not again, Matthew. Tell me it won't happen again."

Matthew isn't sure what she's asking, so he packs their bags in the car and drives them to Quebec. His path is straight and fast.


	10. Chapter 10

**The Selfish Sickness  
><strong>by Positively

.

**DISCLAIMER:** Hidekaz Himaruya owns the characters of Axis Powers Hetalia.

**WARNING:** This is where discussion & analysis of suicide and depression get pretty heavy. I'm an amateur so this is undoubtedly handled with less ~finesse~ than an ~artist~ but I do my best. So beware of self-harm triggers and somewhat melodramatic abject misery. Also, shout-out to rooms 411 everywhere! Also, a lot of self-indulgent Catholicism references. As a rationalist, I know I'm not supposed to think this way, but religion is _beautiful. _Sue me, I'm a Jungian.

.  
>.<p>

* * *

><p>What do you say to your brother after he's just tried to kill himself? It's something that not even Morbid Matthew has really considered before. Is there a book he can buy, he wonders idly, waiting in line to get Francis' room number. Is there protocol, is there a greeting card.<p>

"Visiting time ended two hours ago," the receptionist is saying to every panicked, exhausted face that appears before his desk. Frightened people seeking an audience with their loved ones with appendicitis, broken arms, sliced-open wrists. The receptionist looks exhausted himself, unsympathetic even, apology driven out of him by repetition. He must cause shit-fits on an hourly basis. He must hate this job. Matthew really doesn't give a fuck and for once in his life he's feeling a little confrontational.

"Just give me the room number," he snaps, too tired to even sound sorry about it. "So I can go straight there tomorrow morning? Please?"

"Sir, visiting hours—"

"Do you seriously think I'm going to break in?"

"Why the room number?" Angie asks outside. "What can we do with that if visiting hours are over?"

"We can break in."

* * *

><p>They find his room on the fourth floor. Each door has a little round window. Matthew peers into room 411, but it's too dark: lights out. A porthole into the deepest part of the sea, beyond light. He's lost sight of his brother.<p>

He's suddenly filled with a strange and immovable terror that his brother isn't in there, that he actually died and this room is empty, lights off nobody home, he will never see Francis again. And he can't he won't open the door and prove his theory right. He can't see that the darkness has swallowed his brother. It's like being seven again: there is a monster in the closet but as long as I don't move, as long as I don't open that door, I will be a-okay.

I can't do this, Matthew thinks. I can't do this.

"He's probably sleeping," Angie whispers. She leans into Matthew's side warmly, and he can feel her eyes on his face. Matthew realizes that she's exhausted, staggering beneath the weight of unsleep and grief.

"You're probably right," he whispers back.

Angie takes his hand and leads him back down the dark hallway. The glow from the stairwell illuminates her brave face. They soldier on, hand in hand, impossibly small in the light.

* * *

><p>They spend the night in the same bed because being alone right now seems unnecessarily masochistic, even to Matthew. They don't talk about it, mostly for the same reason. Matthew wakes up in the morning to Angie getting up to go to the bathroom, and his stomach rumbles, and it's just absolutely ridiculous that these mundane bodily functions continue even after something as earth-shattering as your brother trying to die.<p>

_My brother tried to kill himself._

Matthew doesn't let himself think about it. He does. He doesn't. He thinks he might be sick.

"C'mon, we should have breakfast before we go."

This is so surreal. Let's have eggs and toast and tea before confronting suicide. From breakfast to madness. Matthew supposes that Angie's behavior is what they call grace under pressure. He isn't surprised to find that he hasn't got it.

The glass-top stove has shattered, they discover. At first Matthew suspects a cosmic joke, some spontaneous act of chaos to add to the general absurdity of the situation. Explosions for the hell of it. Then Angie says, "Must be how they found him in time," picking up the tea-sticky shards of Mama's old china teapot.

The images come to Matthew's mind before he can stop them: Francis, making tea with Mama's china. Francis, thinking too hard about her and himself. How she made everything stop. Thinking about the razors in the bathroom, just a staircase away. Francis, wandering away from the stove without bothering to turn it off. Francis, trying to die, a little too shallowly. Francis on Mama's bed, bleeding out slower than he thought. And suddenly: the sound of shattering glass from the kitchen. Maybe he was on the verge of passing out at that very instant. Maybe he thought it was the sound of death.

He is really going to be sick. Angie looks over at him. "He's still alive, Matthew. He's alive."

* * *

><p>The hospital is completely different in the light, and Matthew can't quite reconcile the two. Last night it was too dark to be real. Today is so bright, too bright, light washing away color and sharpening edges to a point that makes him nervous.<p>

They trudge up the stairs to the fourth floor. Matthew's hand jerks away from the door handle, too bright, too sharp. Too real. Angie closes her hand around his and twists.

Francis is saying to the nurse, "You know, if I were anywhere but here I'd be making a move? You are such a lovely woman. But I know mental illness is not exactly sexy. Ah, well. My arm hurts like a _motherfucker_. Can I get more morphine?"

"Oh, don't say that," the nurse protests unconvincingly. "And no, you've had enough." She's checking the bandages around his left arm. Then, relieved, "Oh, look, you have visitors! I'll just leave you three alone, then."

Francis sighs and stares into the middle distance.

_Why won't he look at me_, Matthew demands of the floor, the air, the god he doesn't believe in. _He's just tried to off himself and he doesn't even give me the courtesy of eye contact. _But maybe he's just searching for the right words, like Matthew himself has been doing unconsciously for the past eighteen hours.

Angie, thankfully, is more down-to-earth than her brothers, and she knows that there are no right words for this situation. She approaches Francis' bed and hugs him around the neck, careful not to jostle the IV. Red blood, type B. Like Mama's. Like Matthew's.

"_Francis_," she says. "Francis." She's crying and Matthew tamps down on the urge to tell her be quiet, you don't want Mama to hear you cry, she'll get so mad, you'll get hurt. He finally follows Angie and sits down.

"Why?"

"Shut up, Matthew," she chokes. "Not the time."

"It's a valid question," Francis reasons, still not really looking at either of them. "Albeit one that dear Matthew really doesn't need to ask. He knows."

"What the hell are you talking about? No, I—"

"Both of you. Just stop. What he means to say, Francis, is that we're both so happy that you're oka—alive."

Francis shrugs. Matthew is surprised at how dearly he'd like to punch him in his miraculously functioning lungs. "It really is quite incredible that I am, you know. Coincidence of coincidences. The mailman was pushing the bills in the mailslot just as the stove—I'd left it on—got so hot the glass shattered. He walked right into the house! Saw the light under the bedroom door and knocked, asked if anybody was hurt. I told him I was bleeding to death, and next thing I know, I'm in a hospital bed."

What do you do when your brother is being nonchalant about his narrowly-escaped would-be-self-inflicted death?

Oh god, Matthew can't think about it or he'll puke. He really will.

"What if he had ignored the sound? What if he'd acted like a normal human and left when nobody responded to his knocking? What if he'd decided to just leave me there to bleed to death? Fate is such a fickle fiend. Funny, isn't it?"

"No."

"Well, no, I suppose not so much."

There's an uncomfortable silence. "Did you go into the room?"

"No," Matthew snarls. He wants to be sympathetic, he knows the situation calls for it, he knows that this is perhaps the worst time in the history of bad times to be pissy and selfish. But how can Francis just lie back in that hospital bed of his own making and politely inquire as to whether or not they had inspected his near-death scene? Does he think it's funny? Is he being dramatic?

"Ah. Heads up, it's a bit messy. The stains will have set by now. I wonder if the paramedics left my note?"

Angie stands abruptly. "I am going to vomit," she says, matter-of-fact tone rivaling Francis' as she slams out of the room.

A beat.

"Poor girl. She's stronger than us, Matthew." Finally, finally, Francis turns to face his brother. He's in his mid-thirties now, approaching his forties, Matthew realizes with a pang. Small lines around his eyes and his forehead. Frown lines, not smiling ones. His eyes are as piercingly blue as ever, heavy-lidded. He wears the shaggy and romantic hairstyle of a younger man. It's unsettling to have a near-dead man staring you down, Matthew discovers, not least because of what he says next.

"Pain and blood, beginning and end. Everything in between is just a mindless, silly struggle to keep the inevitable at bay." No, Matthew thinks. No, no. The words eat at him, remind him too much of his own thoughts. "And you know that, don't you? It's why Angie's stronger than us. She has something to keep her going, to keep her strong. The ability to ignore. You and me, though. Our great weakness, the Bonnefoy curse. Stricken mad with knowledge. Only we didn't turn to hedonism to make it bearable, as Bacchus did."

"Francis, shut up."

"Why are you so angry? I mean, I know my actions aren't exactly admirable, but you're taking it awfully personally—"

"And how the fuck should I take it, huh? Tell me. Are you saying I shouldn't take it personally that I don't mean enough to you to keep you from wanting to die? Francis—"

His anger eventually overcomes his coherency. He fumes. Francis sighs. "Contrary to what you seem to think, Matthew, my life does not revolve around yours. My will to live is not entirely dependent upon our relationship."

"How _dare_ you accuse _me_ of being self-centered! You? You're the one lying in bed with thirty stitches in your arm! Because you don't give a fuck—"

"And why should I?"

The words are cold, Francis' tone foreign. It feels like a black magic spell, dark and wrong. Matthew wants to run, but he bravely soldiers on. "You promised to be around—to take care of me and Angie when Mama died! You promised, and you haven't finished taking care of me. I still need you, Francis, I'll always need you."

"But these woods are so lovely, dark and deep."

Matthew throws his hands into the air. "I don't even like Robert Frost!"

Francis chuckles. "You always were the one to get my little jokes. We are more alike than you think." There is a knowing look on Francis' face, one that Matthew understands, and the anger starts to build.

"No. No. I know what you're trying to say, and no. I would never do this to the people I love, I would never just _give up_-"

"Don't fool yourself, Matthew. You, too, believe in nothing, right? Isn't that what you decided the day that Mama died? We are nothing." Matthew's hands clench in his lap. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up. _Wrong wrong wrong but so true, too true._ "It only gets truer the more you think about it. I understand it as well as you: nothing matters. Either you don't really believe in what you say you do, or you are just like me. A suicide waiting to happen."

"Please don't," Matthew whispers. _Don't make this a self-fulfilling prophecy._ But of course he's considered it. Suicide. Not just the way everyone considers suicide, and not in the deeper way that all philosophers consider suicide, either. He's made plans. Imagined his funeral. Composed a fucking pro-con list.

Written a note.

Talked himself out of it over and over-it would _destroy_ Francis, Angie's life has been difficult enough, there's so much more to learn...he distracts himself from that possibility, that choice, that Do Not Press button, tucks it in a corner and tries to ignore the way it watches him constantly.

But he's always known, in the back of his head, that it wouldn't be enough. There is madness in his blood, and it claimed his mother and now has come very close to claiming his brother. For all he knows, his mother's entire family in France has offed itself already. Matthew is poised to go the same way. He thinks too much, and he gets too sad, and he doesn't quite believe that his own life is inherently valuable.

He is afraid, has been afraid for years, that Francis is right: he is a suicide waiting to happen.

"I—nuh—" As far as dramatic parting words go, it's not very impressive. But he really is going to be sick this time, or maybe his head is just going to explode, his heart is just going to give out. Because he can't do this. No. He can't think about this right now. He can't do this.

"Matthew, what—" He collides with Angie, on her way back from the bathroom. He keeps going.

"I have to get out of here," he whispers, already several paces beyond her hearing. He can feel her, frozen and staring at him in front of room 411, but he keeps going.

* * *

><p>Ten years ago, Matthew did not step into this church for his mother's funeral.<p>

He doesn't remember much about the service because 1) Angie was crying and when you're a big brother with a sad little sister you mostly forget about yourself in favor of her and 2) it was the first time he'd seen Francis in five years. Looking back, he remembers holding Angie's hand and a red rose, preserved in one of those little tubes of water. Michael was there and so were a couple of his teachers. Michael hugged him and said he would be taking care of the two of them for a while, Francis too if he wanted, and Matthew's teachers expressed condolences and hugged him. He mostly felt nervous and confused and shocked.

The shock didn't wear off until the graveyard, but he doesn't think about that now.

Mostly he remembers how upset he was that his mother wouldn't be getting a full Catholic funeral and burial (because she'd died in a state of mortal sin). "But she was a parishioner at the cathedral," he would whisper when anybody asked how he was feeling. "She loved the Church. It's not right. It's not right."

An hour of nearly every Sunday of his life was spent here, until his mother died and a bit after. He was an altarboy from age seven to twelve, and sang in the choir for extracurricular purposes in high school.

Spiritual apathy was his thing after Marianne died—after all, he only identified as Catholic because _she_ took him to church every Sunday—and he'd been a radical atheist since something like tenth grade. But there's meaning to be found in tradition, even tradition based in something you think is untrue or wrong. Repetition becomes ingrained, and you start to imbue it with powers beyond the natural. Humans have a tendency towards superstition, even if they consciously resist it.

Nostalgia is a manifestation of that superstition—the search for meaning in memories of old—and Matthew indulges in it. The downside of Notre Dame de Quebec, of course, is that it's the cathedral for the Archdiocese and therefore very busy and impersonal. A lot of people come to see the archbishop. You've got to be pretty old and qualified to be a priest here, and pretty damn good to sing here.

If Matthew does say so himself.

It's Wednesday evening, the night for choir practice—or at least it was three years ago—and he was hoping that they'd practice up in the loft for Christmas. The Midnight Mass is a huge deal here: a three-hour-long production with a ridiculous number of preludes and readings. They used to pass out small candles to all the parishioners. The 8:45 and 10:30 services are commercialized for the CEOs—Christmas and Easter Onlys—and those masses are so barren compared to the real deal. The magic of Catholicism—of any religion—is in the ritual. Matthew thinks a lot more people would truly believe if they just went to one Midnight Mass or Dawn Mass or one Easter Vigil.

The loft is empty. They must be singing in the choir room above the church office, he thinks sadly. In the front pews, the bent-over women in veils whisper over their rosaries. A couple of tourists light a votive candle. Matthew kneels in the back of the cathedral and crosses himself—old habits die hard.

He thinks about Francis. He can't. He thinks about what Francis said.

They are neither of them whole.

And he's no Prince Hamlet, he isn't about to spout out some immortalized monologue on whether he should or shouldn't _be_ in a frickin' _church_. He's not some tragic hero. He's just a scared and lonely boy who wishes he could figure out how to stop being so much like himself instead of like everybody else. And the answer, of course, isn't to die, to turn himself into something rich and strange, like that's supposed to _solve_ anything.

Maybe that's the difference between him and his family. They took themselves too seriously. Matthew can't. He's just another human, another animal on a planet that will outlive him by a billion years.

But what if it's in his blood? Or worse, in his head?

Oh, god. They were all he knew. _They were all he knew. _As he was growing up, the only human interaction he received (that was deeper than a mutual recognition of existence) was from these two people. These two people who have wanted so badly to die.

He shares literally everything with them, Matthew thinks. Their genes. His memories, the way he was raised, he was always watching them. He worshipped them both.

What is that supposed to mean for him? How can he escape this fate?

"God," he whispers out loud. It echoes, a plea unheard.

He remembers the procession at Midnight Mass, the church submerged in pure darkness until the ushers lit the candles of the people sitting in the back, those people using their candles to light their neighbors', passing the light on until it spread through the entire congregation. The people singing O Come All Ye Faithful, as one, and the sacristan flipping on all the lights as they reached the final verse: Venite, adoremus dominum.

Palm Sunday. Holy Thursday. The Garden of Gethsemane, the Via Dolorosa, Were You There?

He remembers the year Marianne took him to the Easter Vigil and they stayed in the church to dawn, until the only people left were a few old widows with veils and rosaries, and the priests, and Marianne and Matthew. He stayed awake to see the sunrise—to see the son rise, as the archbishop told them softly. Gloria, Alleluia.

There are some stories that are truer than fact. Some things you can't help but cry over.

Matthew leaves the cathedral, untouched by the eyes of any in the pews.

* * *

><p><em>Francis.<em>

Matthew would like to kill him slowly. He wants to take care of him forever.

He shoves his hands in his coat pockets and wished he'd remembered his scarf. Then he remembers Francis, and remembering to put on a scarf seems like the stupidest thing he could have done that morning. On his phone, there is one new text from Angie: _I read in the newspaper they're about to demolish my old orphanage in NYC._

Matthew can't bring himself to reply. Is everything Angie has ever known going to be blown up or burnt down or both? My family is so fucked up. My family is so fucked up. Everywhere he turns, he sees his suicidal brother, his war-torn abused sister, his dead mother, his distant father, his stupid self. My family is so fucked up.

So he calls Alfred.

"Hey, Mattie! I didn't know you were going to leave right after your exams! I would have said goodbye."

"Yeah, I was. I was going to...but."

Matthew starts tearing up. It is so indescribably good to hear Alfred saying his name in that bright voice, unaffected by all recent events. There is something else out there. There is more to this world than my personal experience. Matthew remembers Angie calling him self-absorbed and doesn't really know what to do with that right now.

"Okay, well, no big deal. I mean, classes don't start back until...damn, I don't think I ever checked. Do you know?"

"The twelfth." Matthew is walking quickly, circling the Vendome Restaurant, around to the Montmorency Park.

"Oh wow, that's like a month away. We can still call each other, right? I mean, if that's not weird..." Alfred laughs sheepishly. Now isn't really the time to be worried about what's supposed to be socially acceptable, not that Matthew would really know to begin with. "Soooo...how do you think your Bio exam went?"

"Don't remember."

"Oh jeez. That's not usually a good thing." Matthew collapses on a likely-looking bench. "But I'm sure you did fine. You're Matthew. Uh, I'm pretty sure I aced my French. God, I hope. Scores'll be up in a couple days."

A man and his daughter are walking on the path, hand in hand. They wear mittens. She has a puffy pink coat and a little hat. It looks handmade. Maybe her mother knit it for her? Or maybe her mother is dead in the ground, maybe her mother never loved her, maybe her mother was too busy being sad.

"Matthew? You still alive?"

Matthew breathes in, holds it. Breathes out.

"Yes, I'm still here. I'm still alive."

"Good! Hey, are you okay? You sound a little...spacey."

"No, I'm just. Are you busy?"

"Right now? Hell, no. Just crammed up in my room, playing Fallout 3. Pretty sad, right? I bet you're doing something amazing, like reading a forty-thousand page book or learning Swahili. Right? Am I right? I bet you're reading. Do you mind talking to me?"

"No. No, I really want to talk to you."

"Admitting that is kind of against dude-bro code, Mattie. But your secret is safe with me. I won't tell Gilbert." A small pause, the sound of a bag of chips being opened. Probably Doritos. Doritos are Alfred's favorite. "Is there something specific on your mind?"

"Yeah."

A boy runs to the father and girl from behind, trying to jump up on the man's back. But he doesn't quite catch hold and falls backward into the snow, laughing his head off. "Daddy, you were going to leave me back there, weren't you!" He doesn't sound offended, though.

"Going to elaborate?" Alfred sounds vaguely amused.

"And what would you have done then?" the father asks of his son, playfully.

"Gone exploring! Fought monsters!"

"Matthew?"

"Fought-what?"

"Are you going to elaborate?" Alfred sounds more worried than amused, now.

"Monsters!" the little girl cries. "No such thing!"

"No," Matthew whispers.

The man has lots of dark blond hair, and when he lowers himself to their level his bangs throw his eyes in shadow. "There are monsters," he tells them gravely. "But they hide. They have many different forms."

"Like what?"

"Why?"

"Sometimes people," he turns to meet the boy's eyes. "Sometimes things. Bad things."

"Matthew, why? Why don't you want to tell me what's on your mind?"

"Bad things? Like drugs?"

"Yeah, like drugs. And the stuff they cause. Anger. Hatred. Sadness. You're too young now, but in a few years you'll see it everywhere."

"I don't believe you," says the girl, walking ahead of them both, nose in the air. As they pass Matthew, the father throws out a carelessly graceful greeting. "Comment aimez-vous cette neige, frère?" How do you like this snow, brother.

"J'ai oublié mon écharpe," he replies with his usual gracelessness. I forgot my scarf.

"I see that," he replies at the same time Alfred asks, "What did you forget? Is someone else there?"

Oh yeah. Alfred. "Sorry, distracted. I don't really. I'm not really up for talking right now. You can hang up if you want."

"No. Unless you want me to. Whatever, dude, your choice."

Matthew has never felt so helpless in his life. It's Christmas break, and his brother has just tried to kill himself, and his sister is losing her childhood home, and he can't protect either of them—not from themselves or from the cold world around them. And he starts tearing up, and the pressure is back, in on his head and nothing is right everything is wrongwrongwrong especially him and there's nothing he can do about anything and-

"Matthew?"

"Alfred?"

"Whathuh?"

"Why don't you tell me about your game. Put me on speaker?"

"What, like narrate what I'm doing?"

"Yeah," Matthew says. His voice is getting even more choked up. Breathe in. Hold it. Out.

"Okay, sure."

Matthew makes his way back to the hospital, the hand on his phone going numb. Alfred talks inanities, sometimes about his game, more often whatever comes to his mind. Every once in a while he asks if Matthew is alright, if he's still with him. "Yeah," he says. He doesn't add thanks to you. Even in this state, he knows that's just not something you say out loud.


	11. Chapter 11

**The Selfish Sickness  
><strong>by Positively

.

**DISCLAIMER:** Hidekaz Himaruya owns the characters of Axis Powers Hetalia.

**Notes:** Hey! Hey, look who isn't dead. That's right, me. Things in the story are starting to pick up, so I think (I hopehopehope) that as long as my schedule this semester isn't as suicidal as it looks, I'll be updating _much_ more frequently. Try to hold me to it? Come to tumblr and harass my inbox. It'll be fun.

The theory explained in the first part of the chapter really exists, and it's called biocentrism. Look it up on Wikipedia, it's pretty cool! I don't know how I feel about its validity, to be quite honest. I'm not a physicist, I'm a chemist, most of this quantum shit is over my head sob physicists are crazy. (Relevant disclaimer: everything I know about quantum mechanics and relativity I taught myself via internet or learned from my older brother, who is much like Alfred in that he drew triangles all over my actual homework and somehow gave me a very very vague idea of how space and time are related. I kept it super simple here from fear of fucking it up, so if you see anything I_ did_ manage to fuck up, _please_ correct me, and then teach me your ways.)

.  
>.<p>

* * *

><p>What if the universe doesn't exist until it is observed?<p>

At face value, this sounds like the silly navel-gazing kind of question that philosophers used to ask before they discovered the whole "does anything even matter" question. It's that old tree-falling-in-the-woods problem. It's silly, right? Of course the tree makes a sound. Or at least it makes sound _waves_, because that's just how displacement works. Asking if you can only call a sound a sound if it is interpreted as such is just semantics.

Not according to Alfred.

The conversation was instigated by Gilbert, who, in his never-ending campaign to disparage Matthew's major, posed that question:

Does the tree make a sound if nobody's around to hear it?

And Matthew had sighed and asked which philosopher did Gilbert want to learn about today, Locke or the Buddhists? And then Alfred butted in with physics as usual.

"No, no, it's actually a really good question! You know the double-slit experiment? How electrons do different things when they're observed versus when they aren't? And like, Gilbert, I know you know this, but like the s and p and d and f orbitals are all just _probability maps_, where the electrons around an atom _might_ be found? Heisenberg and Schrodinger. You know? Observation changes things. The electrons aren't anywhere, or maybe they're everywhere, you know, until you start watching them."

Matthew knew the names from high school chemistry and silly internet cat memes. But he didn't understand what this had to do with trees and sound, so Alfred whipped himself into a frenzy as he did his best to explain quantum mechanics. "So yeah, the idea is that since time and space are only realities of an animal's mind, that there is no such thing as an external reality without observation. And, like, everything is just probability. The universe was just a giant blob of spinning possibility until things came along and processed potential particles as space, and the change in particles as time."

"But how can time and space only be our imagination?"

"Not_ imagination_, just limited perception." Gilbert had fled the room five minutes ago, so Alfred cheerfully pushed Matthew half-off the chair and started drawing diagrams.

"—and that's how we know that time is relative to speed, and so if the velocity approaches the speed of light in a vacuum, time is bent, see? Like light in a prism."

Matthew stared at Alfred's napkin-scribbles. "Did you just prove that time travel is possible using the Pythagorean Theorem?" (It is a testament to Alfred's enthusiasm that Matthew had managed to pay attention to the lesson at all, what with their thighs pressed together on the chair and Alfred's breath puffing occasionally against Matthew's ear and spittle hitting his face, and really that should have been gross but Matthew was _so _pathetically entranced—)

"Well, unfortunately no. Not really. Time gets…weird at high speeds. But I don't think…well, who knows. Hey, did you ever take a calculus class? Damn, then it would make more sense to you. Like, velocity is the derivative of space? Or, you know, displacement. Ring any bells? No. Double damn. You should take calculus. Hey, I'll teach you calculus!"

And, god bless the boy, he tried.

"So anyway, my original point is that maybe if nobody's around to hear the tree, it's not a tree at all. And it doesn't make sound because sound is just energy and it doesn't mean anything until the brain goes and processes it."

Matthew's no good at physics, nor does he really understand what Alfred was getting at with all his poetical explanations of derivatives and integrals and how all the world's a series of Cartesian planes (and all the men and women merely data points!)

But he does have a pretty good grasp on uncertainty. Or, more accurately, he knows what it's like to have a very poor grasp on reality.

Because the day after the day after his brother tried to die, he wakes up to a ceiling that isn't quite familiar enough to remind him of who he is and where he came from. For a blissful five seconds, he is rootless. He is a perfect foreigner, a stranger to himself. His memories are currently inaccessible, but that conversation about consciousness must subconsciously exert some kind of influence over his mind; because in this moment, the entire universe is putting itself back together after his sleep. He'd left it to its own devices, and while he wasn't looking it fell all to pieces, because broken and meaningless is the natural state of things.

Then Angie shifts beside him and makes a small noise. Even in her sleep, it sounds sad.

Right. Now it's coming back. They are in her room because their brother tried to die because broken is the natural state of things. At least where Matthew is concerned.

* * *

><p>The rest of the break is a mash of hospital beds and paperwork, and Francis insisting that he wouldn't attempt again, and Angie not believing him, and Francis demanding freedom, and the doctors saying that they could go before a judge and have Francis declared unfit to make medical decisions, and Francis warning that he would sue for emancipation if they tried that, which doesn't even make sense in legal terms. Matthew later had a quiet conversation with him in which they both admitted to a certain lack of stability and eventually reasoned that Francis would, indeed, be better off spending a few weeks in the hospital's psychiatric unit.<p>

"What did you have to say to him?" Angie will ask later.

"The truth," Matthew will sigh. "He already knew it. He wanted to make me say it." _You're right. It does run in the family. You're right, I think about it all the time._

How strange it had been to be on the receiving end of such cruelty, and from Francis! As a young man he could thoughtlessly devastate Matthew, just with a disdainful sniff or a failure to acknowledge. But this is so pointed—_Admit to me your greatest fear, aloud_. Is he really so vindictive? Is it because Matthew refuses—has always refused—to be sympathetic?

Matthew is so twisted up in all the different anxieties of the situation—_he could have died, he wanted to die, he might still die, what if I die, damn look at all this fucking paperwork_—that he forgets to eat and can't really sleep. The result is intense confusion and a sort of surreal haze over everything he does. Showering baffles him: _Isn't shampoo weird? Did I already put conditioner in my hair? I can't remember._ He starts dropping things and slowly, slowly bends to pick them up, afraid that his low blood pressure will make him faint if he straightens too fast. Angie starts driving them to and from the hospital because she's worried he'll fall asleep at the wheel (_and then we'll die and Francis will certainly make sure to do it right if we're dead_). Honestly Matthew thinks it would be a blessing to fall asleep at all; not that he'll admit it to anyone, but he spent the entirety of last night memorizing the cracks in Angie's ceiling.

It hurts to watch the universe put itself back together. Wouldn't it be nice if it could just exist in its little waves of probability all the time? But when people watch, when people watch it has to make something of itself.

What finally pierces through Matthew's veil of confusion is another call from Alfred.

"Hello?"

"Hey, man. Haven't talked to you in a week. What's up?"

"Eating lunch," Matthew lies easily. He'd said the same thing to Angie, who'd escaped to her room on the lie of a nap. Usually they halfheartedly pretend to spare concern for things like food and sleep, at least to each other—Matthew, I know you aren't sleeping, you need to stop drinking coffee—Angie, the last thing you ate was—Matthew, your shirt—Angie, dishes—Matthew—Angie—and it's really just a way to connect with each other and pretend like things are normal. That's apparently how you prevent yourself from going crazy. Pretend everything is normal until it doesn't matter anymore.

But talking to Alfred is like a taste of Real Normal, not Pretend Normal. Because Alfred has no idea about what's happened. When he talks excitedly about Christmas tomorrow—Jesus, how did that happen, thinks Matthew—he isn't doing it to specifically cover up how he actually feels. Francis' attempted suicide isn't lurking behind everything he says, he doesn't _know. Maybe I should do something about that, _Matthew thinks, and then answers Alfred's questions with, "Oh, I haven't been doing much of anything. A lot of sleeping and reading."

"Yeah, but are you _okay_, is what I'm asking. Because you were acting pretty weird last week. I don't wanna, like, butt in or something. But are you okay now at least?"

"Not really," he admits. He wants their conversation to stay Real and not Pretend. Suddenly Alfred is his only connection to sincerity, to the genuine, even though Alfred doesn't know the truth. And isn't that strange? The truth can be something to make people act dishonestly. "But I think I will be."

Alfred stays quiet for a few moments. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"God, no."

"Okay, then. Would you be really mad if I told you that I haven't got you a Christmas present yet?"

Matthew laughs, harshly and a little hysterically, and admits the same. "The deals are better after Christmas, anyway. What do you want me to get you?"

* * *

><p>The best and worst thing about getting back to school is getting away from Francis. On the one hand, there's the worry that he'll spiral back into whatever thought and mood and behavior made him attempt in the first place. And then there's the really selfish relief of not having to shoulder the blame if that <em>does<em> happen. _You were off at college, there was nothing you could have done_, people would say. _These things just happen. Some people are just tortured._ And Francis won't look at them with his accusing eyes anymore, won't guilt trip them, won't sigh dramatically and expect everyone to fall all over themselves asking what's wrong—

Matthew has never been charitable about Francis' depression.

In fact, before he had reason to believe otherwise, he'd assumed that his brother was completely insincere about his declarations of despair. Angie had always scolded him: "Even if you think he's just crying for attention, doesn't that mean he's genuinely suffering from something? Maybe he hams it up a bit, but there's obviously some real pain there." Matthew hadn't seen it.

Being forced to acknowledge it has only made him angry, not sympathetic like everyone expects. It baffles Matthew himself as much as anyone else.

He is the first of his suitemates to return to campus, so he unpacks slowly and peacefully. Menial tasks have the benefit of keeping him up and alert without requiring the higher level brain function that will invariably talk him back into some sucking grief. Matthew tries to ignore the couch's nap rays, because down the path of sleep lies helplessness. The second you acknowledge tiredness is the second you lose the ability to fight against yourself. And a nap at this hour would irreversibly screw up his sleeping schedule for the first week of classes, and maybe the whole semester if Matthew's streak of bad luck continues. He doesn't expect to catch any breaks, so he is definitely not going to sit down on that couch. He's just going to keep cleaning around it. And maybe just rest his legs. And his eyes.

"Hello, mates of my suite! I have returned from Virginia, bearing scars of verbal abuse and too much food and—hey, where is everyone?"

Eduard's arm emerges from his bedroom to wave awkwardly. "Matthew's been asleep on the couch since I got here. Gilbert dropped off his stuff and went somewhere…"

Matthew sits up and eyes his suitemates blearily. "Is it Monday yet?"

Alfred whoops and rockets across the room to lift him bodily from the couch. Matthew's arms and legs dangle distressingly towards the floor. He hasn't the energy to support himself, so he lets his body bow backwards into the clasp of Alfred's arms. "Is it Monday yet, he asks! God, I've missed you, Mattie." He pulls away to study his captive's face for a moment, a fond look in his eyes, and then drops him back onto the couch. Matthew is beyond disoriented from his nap, which is incidentally the first time he's slept in twenty-six hours, and still hasn't decided whether or not all this is actually just a dream. He openly stares at the vision of oblivious joy before him, because he isn't awake enough to remember why he shouldn't.

Alfred's brow and mouth soften. "Hey, you look beat. Maybe I shouldn't have woken you up, hey?"

"No, I need to get up," he slurs, aware that this is one-hundred percent true without being able to remember why. His eyelids aren't listening, though. He turns his face back into the couch cushion.

"You know how in books, they say 'So-and-so's face looked gaunt, like he hadn't been eating well,' and you think, like, nobody is that observant, you know, nobody's face changes that much in a couple weeks?" The words do not cohere, so Mathew ignores them. "Well, yours did. Wow, man. Let's make dinner."

"Phuuussssha, dinner."

"Yes, indeed. Phuuussssha. Dinner." Alfred rests a hand on his shoulder, and waits quietly for Matthew to convince himself to return to consciousness.

He eventually wakes up enough to recognize the soft, unusual concern on Alfred's face, and the hesitant way he reaches out to brush Matthew's wrist, straighten his collar, hand on the shoulder, _hey I'm here. _It makes him want to cry. He spent a lot of his childhood unconsciously waiting for somebody to touch him, and now he draws away from it; not because he doesn't want it, but because he wants it too much. He wants to be enveloped, consumed, held tight and close and warm and one. It's a frightening need, and one that has never been fully met. He wonders if it even has a bottom, if it can ever be satisfied.

They cook and eat loudly and boisterously, saying little with a lot of words. The tension from just before break is back; Alfred is doing that infuriating thing where he showers his friend with attention and affection and maybe even attraction, and then he abruptly backs away to redraw boundaries, which he proceeds to cross two minutes later. Matthew does his best to keep up. Maybe if he wants to get something done, he should force the moment to its crisis; but he's never been that confrontational.

(_If it's meant to happen, it'll happen,_ he and people like him tell themselves. _If I won't make a move, surely he will_. Matthew's life is pretty uneventful, with the way he sits around waiting for things to happen to him.)

Eduard comes in as they're washing the dishes, and their conversation stops. Alfred passes clean dishes to Matthew for drying, exchanging significant glances that may or may not be flirtatious. They touch each other's arms softly when Eduard isn't looking, glance over their shoulders like they're breaking the rules.

Secretive is the word for it, but there isn't anything to hide. Only things to discover.

* * *

><p>Later that night, Matthew is printing out five syllabi and writing down the ISBNs of all the books he needs to buy. Looks like this semester is going to set him back three hundred. <em>American <em>dollars. Fuck.

Alfred is getting drunk in the kitchen for his semiannual Back To Classes Hangover. It was an accident the first few times it happened, but by now it's become sacred tradition. The theory is that it simultaneously breaks you down and builds you up: it wipes the painful memories from last semester, and makes you forget about the one to come. You can't focus on how much it's going to suck if you're already too focused on how much your head hurts, right, eh?

The knock at the door doesn't surprise Matthew; he's been waiting for an invitation for the past thirty minutes. But when he calls "Come in," it's Gilbert, not Alfred.

"You okay?" the pale young man asks, turning to shut the door behind him.

"Uh, yeah?"

"Bullshit. Have you called your brother yet?"

They stare at each other for a few breathless moments. Matthew is tensed, his wide eyes and stiff posture dreading _does he know does he know_? An eyeroll and a sigh from Gilbert. "Maybe if you ever bothered to pull your head out of your ass for thirty freaking seconds, you would have noticed that I'm dating your sister."

"Oh," Matthew says softly. There's an awkward quiet. Should he demand to know what Gilbert's intentions are? He's always thought of Angie as his big sister anyway, and feels that the only thanks he'd get for defending her honor would be a shove down the stairs. "So. I guess she told you about Francis."

Gilbert punches out a short breath, and his expression reluctantly loses a little of its annoyance. "Yeah. Come here." He hugs warm and hard, and Matthew relaxes his contact-shy sensibilities to draw it around him like a sweater. Hugs are very containing things when you get down to it; it's being held together by force; it's being surrounded by something that isn't yourself.

"Angie fell asleep right after dinner, so I don't think she'll be in to see you tonight. If you need anything, come talk to me. And call your goddamn brother."

"Gilbert, I don't—"

"Listen to me, you crazy—no, I need a smoke. Come out onto the roof with me. Bring your phone."

They ignore Alfred on the way out the window. Gilbert smokes viciously, sucking down fog in great gulps and ripping the cigarette from his mouth. "Okay, Birdie, here's the deal. This is not about you. I know, crazy, right? A guy tries to kill himself and it's suddenly all about him, and not his little brother? Weird. Dunno who made up those rules—"

"I never said it was about me," Matthew protests weakly. He is talked over.

"But it's in everything you do! And you're so…wrapped up in yourself that you didn't even know Angie and I were dating. Matthew, we've been dating for two months. We had a bet going on whether you'd figure it out for yourself or if one of us would have to tell you. I mean…I know a lot goes on up there"—he taps Matthew's head, and the glowing end of the cigarette comes perilously close to jabbing his eye—"but you need to start thinking about other people, okay? Now, your brother. How the hell do you think he feels, locked up in some hospital, alone just weeks after trying to—you know—and his only family just left the country. I know you have your issues with him and what he did, but for the love of Nietzsche and all that is unholy, _call_ him. Give him a fucking reason to stay alive. And don't cry, Birdie, hey, don't cry."

He presses Matthew's face into his shoulder, hiding him from the stars. Maybe hiding the stars from _him_. He's always been so fixated on the sky, the above and the idea of the above; ceilings, rooftops, clouds, stars. Is Matthew's mind ever on the fucking ground? And he comes to this rooftop to ponder all these questions: what for, and why, and to what purpose? He knows a thousand ways to ask the question and not a single answer. And in fact thinking about it only ever takes him farther and farther from finding it.

"Everyone feels alone in the world, you self-absorbed idiot," he murmurs. The bite is gone, but the words still hurt. God, but how did Matthew never realize? "You and me and Alfred and Eduard, though we don't let people know we think about it. Anybody you've ever known, people you've hated, people you think have never had a deep thought in their lives. They feel it, too. They wonder, too. You don't have a monopoly on suffering, or uncertainty, or whatever it is that makes you think you're the only sincerely sad asshole in the world."

Of course I'm not, I know I'm not, he wishes he could say around the rocks in his throat.

"Everyone is alone. But we can choose to have company, you know?"

Minutes pass. The air is cold but Gilbert's shoulder is warm, and there's a blessed lack of windchill. The stars go on spinning where Matthew can't see them.

"You're right, that your brother's a wrongheaded idiot. But so are you."

And that's just too much. So _everybody_ thinks Matthew's going to end up just like Francis? Before he can go vault himself off the rooftop to prove everybody right once and for all, Gilbert shakes his shoulder a little bit. "But you can change, you know?" People can change, he says. We can stop wallowing masochistically in our personal little tragedies. We don't have to be alone because it's beautiful, we don't have to define ourselves—set ourselves apart from our seven billion comrades—in terms of trauma. "You want tragedy, man? There's a real fucking tragedy: falling in love with your own sad story."

It strikes Matthew that Gilbert sure is one to talk about self-destructive wallowing while he's on his fourteenth cigarette of the day; and then he remembers himself complaining to Angie about how self-absorbed Francis is and wants to throw up. And how Francis used to admit that he sometimes hated Marianne for how she was and what she did—and ended up just like her! He thinks about Alfred's fondness for Ayn Rand and his tendency to do the exact opposite of what her philosophy says. The whole world is made up of filthy hypocrites, but if he thinks about it too much he really will throw himself off the roof, and that would be very counterproductive right now.

"I'm going in," Gilbert sighs, dropping his still-smoking cigarette carelessly. It rolls down the gently-sloped roof to join a hundred others caught in the gutter. Shit, they are so going to start a fire one of these days. "Birdie, have you told Alfred?"

"Alfred? Why?"

"Maybe because he's your best friend? Angie says it's hard for the two of you to talk about this. Both too close to the situation. And you piss her off sometimes. You need someone to talk to, and Alfred's an idiot, but he's a good guy if you need him to be."

"I should. But I don't think I…I don't think I can."

"Whatever, your choice. But don't let it fester. Oh, and Birdie?" He hauls up the window. "Call your brother."

To his credit, Matthew thinks about it for a very long time. He even takes out his phone and scrolls to "Bonnefoy, Francis" before snapping it shut and hurling it to the ground.

* * *

><p>"Hey, Mattie. What's up?"<p>

"I'm about to go order a new phone online. Oh, and I just found out that Gilbert is dating my sister. Who is a _freshman_, by the way."

"How'd you find out?"

"He told me."

"Dammit, Matthew! I had twenty dollars on you figuring it out for yourself!"

Matthew wearily cleans his glasses with his shirt. "How did you know?"

"I noticed Gilbert was spending less time here. I asked why. Don't feel bad, they went out of their way to be secretive. I'd be pissed if I were you. But you're not. You're different."

"Different" when Alfred says it means a good thing, but right now Matthew wishes he could be a little more like everyone else. He collapses at the kitchen table and turns to his suitemate. "Hey, weren't you drinking that same beer half an hour ago?" Upon closer inspection, Alfred doesn't even really seem drunk.

"Yeah. Not really in the spirit of it. Last semester of our undergraduate lives. Christ, we're old."

"Shit, man, I don't even want to think about it. But hey, we're going to grad school, right? At least four more years of studying for a living. When do you get your decisions back?"

"Mid-March. My anatomy professor just got around to sending in my last recommendation today. For med school, that is."

"Yeah, I figured," Matthew says softly. "I find out mid-March, too."

"Oh cool, we can have joint rejection parties. Get miserable-drunk together. It'll be great. Hey, I've never seen you drunk before, what gives?"

"Oh, I got all that out of my system in high school," Matthew admits in a rare moment of unguarded honesty. What he really means by that, of course, is that he was a little too enthusiastic in his debauchery and doesn't trust himself to learn moderation at this point. Especially since the trigger last time was his mother's suicide, and with Francis now….He stretches more, yawning and clutching at the far end of the table with the tips of his thawing fingers. He warms his nose on the insides of his outstretched arms.

"_Seriously_? No. No way."

"Yes, way. I was a delinquent, actually." He turns his head to face Alfred with a small smile. "I had a group of friends I played street hockey with. We were…disbanded by the local police."

"Disbanded?"

"For suspected gang activity. But, but I don't even know what that means! I mean, there were a lot of injuries, okay, but street hockey is by nature a violent game. And sure, we didn't play by the rules, but _that was one of the rules._" He doesn't mention the grass-dealing and the tagging and the first-degree assault on members of rival teams. There are some dark parts of him that don't need airing out, that Matthew couldn't handle admitting to right now.

"Holy shit."

"You sound impressed."

"I am, I really am!" Alfred duplicates Matthew's pose, their faces fallen horizontal and very close. "Wow. Matthew Williams, in a gang."

"I wasn't!"

"Aw, you're so cute when you're pretending to be straight-edge," he grins, teeth cold and lips soft on Matthew's arm. Their dangling fingers touch. For dignity's sake, Matthew pretends that this doesn't make his heart race and his knees go wobbly. "So, what? You went around drinking and bashing people with hockey sticks?"

"Oh god. We were…pretty despicable." Pretty angry. Pretty, lost, pretty angry. He had been furious with the world, with his dead mother and dying brother and useless father. Oh those wild days of smoking and drinking and defacing property and lashing out at himself most of all. What a darkly satisfying chapter of his life. "I need to write letters of apology to, like, twenty different people. I should really do that one day."

"You're serious."

"Mmm-hmm."

"Good god, we're old."

"Mmmmmmm-hmm."

Alfred sighs and burrows his face into his arms. "I don't wanna grow up," he says in a small voice. It's a very vulnerable moment; he shows his neck like a prisoner waiting for punishment or mercy. Matthew turns his face the other way.

"You know, I don't think you ever will?"

He hears Alfred shifting from behind him and then feels breath on the back of his neck. "You really think so?"

"It's hard to hold on to being a kid, but if anybody could do it, I'd say it was you."

Alfred laughs, and Matthew can feel the gust of air on his skin. The kitchen table digs into his ribs. "I can't tell if that was a compliment or an insult."

"No, really!" Matthew insists. He makes to turn around and face Alfred, but his fellow table-lounger stays him with a hand. "The reason children are so much better than adults is…enthusiasm. Most people get cynical, and they stop letting themselves be happy, because they convince themselves that there's no reason to be happy. No reason to care about anything, like caring about things makes them stupid or immature. And, just, I think you're the most…I mean, it's really amazing that you still…care about stuff. Honestly." He trails off, feeling stupid.

Alfred is quiet for a few long moments. Matthew tries to characterize the irregular breaths against his skin, that quietly essential proof of continued existence. The heat gets closer and closer, until he feels Alfred's lips against his skin. He freezes.

"You drive me crazy," Alfred whispers against his neck, and really, how is Matthew supposed to take that?

"Alfred," he says. He turns and brings his hands down from the far edge of the table, and he sweeps his thumbs underneath Alfred's glasses where his eyes are shut tight in mortification. His lashes flutter a bit, and relax. Their lips are so close, so Matthew leans in, can't help himself, hesitates—Alfred's eyes snap open and his hands jerk to Matthew's face—and Matthew is gathered and steadied and kissed in one jerky motion.

A second later, Alfred's hands relax and slide down to his neck and shoulders. He makes a whining sound against their pressed-together lips as he tries to hoist them vertical, because oh yeah they're still draped across the table like a couple of housecats. Matthew tries to laugh, but Alfred has his lower lip by the teeth. It escapes as a snicker through his nose. "Don't laugh at me," Alfred mumbles against his jaw. "I'm the best kisser _ever_."

Matthew thinks about saying something snarky like, "I'm not convinced, I need further evidence," but that's too cheesy even for him. And he kind of agrees. So he hums a little and kisses some more, mouth shut tight against a dozen secrets that he should have already told.


	12. Chapter 12

**The Selfish Sickness  
><strong>by Positively

.

**DISCLAIMER:** Hidekaz Himaruya owns the characters of Axis Powers Hetalia.

**Notes:** Uwahhhh you guys if you haven't already seen this fanart, check it out: spacedrunk dot tumblr dot com/post/16734662077/

.  
>.<p>

* * *

><p>There is singing in the stairwell.<p>

The song is tuneless and wordless but far from joyless, and two girls hopping down the steps grin at Alfred as he hops up. "He was so _happy_," the redhead hisses from two floors below, but the stairwell echoes so that Alfred hears. He smiles because happiness is self-perpetuating like blood clotting and nerve signals, positive feedback, and everything just gets better and better as he repeats to himself, "Matthew's done for the day, and so am I."

He'd been distracted in every class not by how much this semester is going to suck, nor by how much his head hurt, but by the thought of Matthew. The idea of possessing some part of him—even if it's just his attention and some measure of emotion and maybe a few strategic body parts here and there—is absolutely thrilling. _I could march into the apartment and slam him against the door and kiss his neck and ask about his day and he might not even punch me in the face for it._

He bangs into the apartment, mouth already open to call out, "Honey, I'm home!" when the door is slammed shut and he is slammed against it and kissed thoroughly.

At first there is nothing but blank shock and a sense that something violently important is happening too quickly to be processed. And then Alfred grasps some kind of memory, a bizarre recollection of this one time when Matthew rolled his eyes at him (admittedly a frequent occurrence, but Alfred has this _one specific eye-roll_ in mind) and then Matthew stops kissing him. He feels cheated because he was too busy thinking about nothing and then thinking about something dumb and now he doesn't even know what the kiss was like and he cannot stop thinking in run-ons. So he feels cheated. Probably he does not feel as cheated as Matthew when he asks:

"Hey, Matt, can you tell me what that kiss was like just now? I was thinking about something dumb."

Matthew's expression is perfectly, ominously blank. "What were you thinking about?"

"Run-ons," Alfred gulps, though it is not precisely true.

"Oh, okay." So Matthew kisses him again.

Though Alfred is tempted to kiss Matthew all afternoon (and possibly all night and well into the morning, for the next two weeks), there is something of import to discuss. "Tinsel."

"What."

"I have something to tell you."

"Tinsel. You need to tell me something about tinsel?" Matthew is still facing the door, hands curled midair where Alfred has shimmied out beneath them. Now Alfred paces the length of the living room, bookbag still on his back.

"Yes! Like, you know, the icicles on Christmas trees." He makes a wiggle-finger motion, presumably imitating tinsel. "My family, we almost couldn't find any this year. People are going for, like, recyclable alternatives, like garlands and shit."

"Well, good. Recycling is—"

"_No!_ Matthew, that is totally missing the point."

"I'm sorry, there's a point here?"

"Yes! And you're missing it. Okay, tinsel is like the most important part of decorating the Christmas tree, right?"

Matthew considers. "Nah, I think the singing was the most important part."

"Singing?"

"My mom was a really fantastic singer. She used to sing carols while we decorated. And the ornaments…she bought ornaments like the ones she had in France as a kid, just really simple red round ones…"

"Oh." Second-hand nostalgia is a weird feeling, Alfred decides. He tries to imagine a young Matthew with rounder, redder cheeks, falling asleep on a singing woman's lap. For a moment, Matthew's expression is unsettlingly dark; he hides it in the shadow of his hair. "Well," continues Alfred, "at our house, it was the tinsel. Our mom used to try to get us to put it on one strand at a time, but me and Arthur were impatient and threw it on in clumps, and then we just kept doing it to bug her. And every year, we'd ball up a whole bunch of it and hide it in the tree. Rat's nest. The goal was to keep it hidden until the day after Christmas."

"Day after Christmas? Why not the sixth?"

"The sixth?"

"Yeah, the sixth. January sixth, the Epiphany."

"The what? We took our tree down the day after Christmas."

"Heathen! You keep the tree up until January sixth. Jesus."

"I don't think Jesus cares that much." Man, despite his self-professed atheism, Matthew could be such a _Catholic._

"Shows what you know. So anyway, why do you bring up tinsel?"

"Right!" Alfred grasps hold of his original purpose. "Because it'll be on sale at Wal-Mart! And last year I couldn't find it anywhere, and I barely found out Wal-Mart was selling it in time this year. So I think we need to stock up, before it's gone forever."

"How much?"

"Lifetime supply."

* * *

><p>Twenty minutes and two hundred boxes of tinsel later, the boys arrive back on campus.<p>

"You are out of your mind," Matthew informs this crazy boy.

"I'm sure you'll be singing a different tune in a few years, when they don't make tinsel anymore. And you'll come running to me, offering your firstborn's soul in exchange for a few strands, and I'll say, 'I'd give you some if I could spare it, but you wouldn't let me buy four hundred boxes all those years ago.'"

"We'd already attracted enough attention. Alfred, did you see the look the cashier was giving us?"

"Yes. It was a look of endearment," he says defensively.

Matthew rolls his eyes. "Five cents apiece, what a steal!" Alfred had crowed, while the checkout man glared down at the silver strands like he was trying to figure out how to fashion them into a deadly weapon. Matthew isn't sure if he planned to use the tinsel-sword on them or himself. Regardless, he was eager to get Alfred out of there.

"And that marks the first and final time I will ever shop at Wal-Mart."

Alfred smiles close and in-your-face, bright like the sun has stopped to see its reflection in his teeth, a smile soft at its edges. It's so fond and so familiar that Matthew wonders just how long they'd been caught in their lonely separate spheres of longing before Alfred dared make a move. And just how had Matthew feared rejection, anyway? It's so obvious. Maybe it's been there so strong and so long that they couldn't understand it, like a word that's said too fast or too often.

"Wal-Mart's pretty sleazy, isn't it? I guess, now that I've got my lifetime supply of tinsel, I don't need to go there anymore."

Matthew turns to share in his smile, and there's an awkward leaning-in and snapping away as they realize they're in plain view of half the university. Alfred harrumphs and makes a spectacle of not-kissing Matthew. People who hadn't noticed them before stop to stare. He adjusts the four plastic bags to one arm, then throws the other over his companion's shoulder in a totally platonic fashion. "So, dude-man-bro," he announces to the quad, then leans down to whisper, "We're going to get back to the suite and I am going to kiss the _hell_ out of you."

"Can we watch Jeopardy?"

"Only if you promise not to kick my ass too bad."

"Mm, no can do."

* * *

><p>Then Gilbert and Angie show up for dinner. Eduard wonders loudly, "How'd you two end up coming together? Did you guys meet on the stairs?" He's a really bad actor. <em>Damn, <em>Matthew thinks regretfully, _my head really was up my ass._

"The jig is up. He knows. Alfred owes each of us five bucks."

"Wait. Alfred's the only one who bet in my favor?"

Angie smiles tiredly back at her brother. "And look where it got him."

Things are a bit awkward, especially because everybody is surreptitiously trying to gauge Matthew's reaction. They're probably expecting anger; each of them wears a semi-contrite expression, so that when he finally snaps they'll have a head-start on apologizing. It's really starting to grate, so he retreats to his bedroom. Angie follows him.

"Have you called Francis?"

"Broke my phone."

"On purpose?"

"Pretty much."

Something the slump of Angie's shoulders drains him utterly. He collapses on his bed. Angie follows him.

"I can't do this on my own, Matthew," she whispers. Everything about her is exhausted and exhausting. Suddenly he feels the need to get away, her very presence is suffocating him like quicksand, but as in quicksand he is held immobile and sucked down and down.

"I'm sorry, Angie."

"Yeah, I'll believe it when you call your brother."

"_Our_ brother."

"Well, with the way you've been acting, he might as well be _my_ brother." She pauses and her breath hitches, and Matthew just knows she's about to start talking while trying not to cry, and that's just the most horrifyingly sad thing in the world, listening to somebody try to talk while pretending not to cry. His muscles buzz hot and cold all over, and his stomach plummets. "Do you know what he said to me today? He said that you're probably disappointed that he didn't—that he didn't—I mean, Matthew, you're acting like it, you know?"

Great waves of sick heady greasy self-hatred rise in his stomach. He squeezes his eyes shut, but the darkness makes it worse. "Every time I think about it…Angie, you don't know how it—"

"I _don't know how it feels_? What, because I'm adopted I can't love him as much as you? I mean, Matthew, judging by the evidence—"

"Please don't." There's not enough room in his body for all this guilt, he swears it's going to explode out of him somehow, and there's no way to get rid of it, _there's no way to get rid of it, _just like this weird self-hating curiosity that killed his mother and hurt his brother, he's _chained_ to it, chained to his guilt and his mind and his god damn self. He would rip out his intestines if he thought it might help. "I didn't mean it like that. I mean…he told me I was the same. The same as him and Mama. I don't want to be like that, Angie. I don't want to end up like them."

Angie sits up to stare at him blankly. "Then don't kill yourself."

"Tell that to Francis!"

"Tell him yourself," she sighs, dropping her phone on his stomach. "I'll come get you when dinner's ready."

Matthew tries to find the number under "Bonnefoy, Francis," before remembering that he's just "Francis" in Angie's phone.

When it goes to voicemail, he nearly weeps with relief.

"Hey, Francis," he chokes out, still overcome by his good luck. "My phone broke, so while I'm waiting for the new one to come in you'll have to talk to me through Angie. Uhm…" And a feeling of déjà vu strikes: What do you say to your brother who's just tried to die? And clearly, Matthew thinks, clearly the answer is not to make small talk.

"Listen. Francis, I hate some of the things you did, and it was really fucking—not cool—of you to try to kill yourself, and I'm pissed, but I love you. Okay? You're my brother and I love you and please, I—I'm sorry. And fuck you." He brushes away a few tears. "I think that's everything."

And then, in a small voice, in the way Marianne used to say it on the phone: "Okay, talk to you soon, love you, bye-bye."

* * *

><p>"Aw, ain't he sweet."<p>

"Yeah, adorable. Matthew? Hey, Matthew." A gentle hand tugs at his upper arm. He groans and tries to burrow deeper into the pillow. His face is sticky with tears, and his stomach acid is still trying to dissolve the rest of his internal organs, and his lungs won't fill up all the way, and maybe he should just go back to sleep. "Dude, where'd you put my phone? I'm about to leave."

"Mmmrrr. What time is it?"

"Nine. You slept through dinner. I thought you'd rather stay asleep."

Matthew finds the phone crushed between his solar plexus and the mattress. Breathing remains shallow and painful even as he removes it. "Do you want me to bring you something to eat?" Alfred asks, jarringly loud, from the direction of the doorway.

"No thanks."

"Get him something anyway," Angie mutters.

"Yeah, I was going to," Alfred sighs. Matthew sits up groggily and straightens his glasses. He gets the third degree as Angie hugs him goodbye.

"Did you call him?"

"Got his voicemail."

Angie pulls away and looks him very hard in the eye. "Did you leave a message?"

Matthew doesn't respond, and she repeats the question. "Fine, yes! I did! Jesus God. I said fuck you and I'm sorry." Angie looks like it would give her great pleasure to pick up the desk chair and bash him over the head with it. Alfred clears his throat from the doorway.

"Uh…mac and cheese good, Matthew?"

"Yeah, thanks."

Angie threatens, "I'll be back tomorrow. 'Night, Alfred."

"'Night." When she has safely left the apartment, Alfred whistles low. "Wow, you sure pissed her off somehow." He perches on the edge of Matthew's bed, offering the plate. Matthew pokes at it disinterestedly.

"Everything okay?"

"Just tired," Matthew lies automatically. "I had a heavy break."

"Dude, last semester of classes. It only gets worse from here."

"Oh, good. You always know what to say to make a guy feel better."

"You can put that on my gravestone." He isn't smiling, though, and his stare lingers at the shadows beneath Matthew's eyes. It's obvious enough that something's wrong, and obvious enough that Alfred knows it; but they leave it unsaid, because Alfred doesn't know if he should bring it up and Matthew doesn't know how.

What a toxic secret to keep, he thinks. He's had so many chances to talk about it; with every lie of omission, his window of opportunity to cleanly confess shrinks. Still he remains silent.

Everyone is making Matthew feel claustrophobic these days.

Alfred kicks off his shoes and settles around Matthew like a sunning snake. "Eat your mac and cheese. _Ma_tthew. Do I have to play the airplane game with you? 'Cause I'll do it. You know I will."

"I'd like to see you try," Matthew challenges, and he forgets for a while longer.

* * *

><p>"So I don't really know if I even want to go to graduate school," Matthew admits to his senior advisor.<p>

"Well, the time to mention that would have been _before_ you spent the two hundred dollars in application fees, don't you think?" the man asks wryly. He straightens his nameplate—TORIS LAURINAITIS, Ph.D—in a nervous gesture. Much about this man suggests nervousness: his twitching eyes and the eternal crease between his brows betray a sort of perpetual discomfort. But underneath there's feel-good peaceful calmness that makes Matthew want to settle in and have a nap. A few years ago, Matthew had hoped to grow up to be just like Dr. Laurinaitis.

"We've had this discussion before, Matthew. Professional school or PR are your best bets for getting a philosophy-related job."

"But what if I don't want a philosophy-related job?"

"With a philosophy degree you could be a freelance writer. Possibly do some administration work. There are plenty of office jobs that will accept any old degree. But I get the feeling this is not so specific a complaint. You're getting senior _angst_," he says, pronouncing it like the German for anxiety. _Ahhh-_ngst. "You're the third I've had this week. It seems to hit the philosophy majors first. And soon the comp lit majors will go wringing their hands at their departmental advisor…"

"But I really mean it! I have no idea what I'm planning to do, even with a graduate degree. I could teach, but I'd probably hate it. I could write, but that's not exactly lucrative. Every possibility I consider seems like a really bad idea."

"Well, of course it does," Dr. Laurinaitis sighs. "It's your whole future. Nothing's ever going to seem good enough."

Is this something to be optimistic or miserable about?

"If it helps, Matthew, you're one of the brightest students in this department. I'm sure all of your recommenders will have said so—in fact, I know for certain that at least one did—and your essays will speak for themselves. There is very little doubt in my mind that you'll get into every graduate program you applied to. Focus on choosing which one. No need to worry about what comes after just yet."

"I'm just worried that I won't do anything with my degree."

He shrugs. "It won't have been a waste. You'll learn things, and that'll be worth it. Maybe you won't be completely satisfied. In fact, you won't because that's the nature of the world. But you'll find that, nearly one hundred percent of the time, you can live with anything."

"Did you just paraphrase Mick Jagger?"

"A bit. Did it help?"

Matthew sighs. "A bit."

"Good. Now let's talk about your thesis. Did you get a lot of work done over break?"

* * *

><p>Matthew's sleep cycle is, predictably, screwed all to hell after his two weeks of non-sleeping and his two days of day-sleeping. He collapses hopefully into bed at one in the morning and tries to think of anything but his brother and his future and why none of it matters. He can't think of anything to think of <em>except<em> for these thoughts. Think think think. Has he ever done anything but? Has he ever just _done_ _anything_? He wonders. The result is one hour of despair and one hour of intense frustration, followed by a trek to the kitchen at three.

It's eerie by the empty quiet of three o'clock. Sometimes, when he's awake at this hour, he recalls a night from his very early childhood in which he'd been too excited or too sugared-up to sleep. He'd wandered into the kitchen to find his mother, who was talking on the phone. This was back when phones had to be connected to the wall by a cord.

"I can't sleep."

She poured him a glass of red Kool-Aid and hoisted him up onto her hip, her ear still attached to the wall via phone. Now, as he rummages through the fridge, he wonders with whom she spoke that night. Did Marianne have friends? This seems like something he should remember. Who else was at the funeral?

When he turns around with orange juice in his hand, Alfred is sitting at the table.

"Did I scare you?" he whisper-screams unnecessarily as the orange juice goes flying.

"Jesus God, Alfred! Warn a guy."

Alfred is grinning like he thinks he's hilarious. "Hey, get me a glass too. And a kiss."

Matthew mutters murder under his breath but brings over two glasses anyway, leaning down for a kiss. Alfred goes in for it deep and open-mouthed, which makes Matthew a little self-conscious. A couple hours in bed will put sweaters on your teeth, even if sleep never truly finds you. He'd never noticed before. He'd never had reason to.

"What brings you out of bed so late?" Alfred asks. His eyes are still distractedly fixed on Matthew's lips.

"Too many naps, I think. I've been trying for a while. And I'm getting senior _angst_."

"Already? Man, I'm trying not to think about it."

This, Matthew believes, is one of those closely-guarded secrets of life that everyone else has already figured out. How not to think about it. "I went and saw my advisor today. Told him I was having second thoughts about grad school."

"Don't you think it's a little late for that?"

"Don't. Don't you say that. Everybody says that and it's such…entrapment. Like, 'you're almost there, just keep going.' I feel like I'm in a wagon on the way to the slaughterhouse and everybody's telling me, 'we're almost there, might as well go through with it.' What if I want to jump off?"

"I don't think grad school is really comparable to a slaughterhouse."

"Probably not." Matthew scrubs at his bed-curly hair. "It's just that I've been feeling really claustrophobic lately, and I wish people would stop telling me that it's too late to change my mind. I hate feeling trapped like that."

"Hey, it's not too late." Alfred pulls him in for a warm little half-hug, and they remain linked for a few quiet minutes. They are the only ones awake and it feels like the only ones in the world, the last two on earth, putting Matthew in mind of floods and arks and covenants.

"I mean, of course I'm going to grad school. I just want some space to think about it."

"If you say so," Alfred says, and he really means the words. He says it the way it's meant to be said: "I know it to be true if only because you tell me that it's true." It's a declaration of trust. Sometimes words get used so often they become meaningless. Beautiful sayings and idioms are just taken for granted, like a repeated word that loses its coherency, like the opposite of an epiphany. He tries to explain this to Alfred, who smiles and does it again: "If you say so."

He's magically fond of Matthew. His affection is like an enchantment.

_He could charm me to the floor_, Matthew admits helplessly to himself.

"So if you decide not to go to grad school, what would you do?"

"Jesus, I don't know. Find a sugar daddy?"

Alfred barks out a surprised laugh. "Well, you'll have to get rid of me then. Medical school takes four years and then two years internship then another of residency. And med school debt'll be horrendous. Uuugh, I don't even want to think about it."

"So you're definitely going to med school?"

"Uuugh, I don't even know."

"Suppose you get into every school you applied to."

"Suppose we change the subject."

He leans over to nuzzle Matthew's cheek, in a gesture that is possibly his way of changing the subject. Matthew perseveres. "I don't know how you can just leave things alone like that. My future's driving me insane over here, and it's practically decided already. I'd be having a nervous breakdown if I were you."

He moves his lips close to Matthew's ear as he whispers: "You wanna know the secret?" The cold tip of his nose brushes Matthew's cheek and along his jaw as he skims small kisses across his neck. "You wanna know how to stop freaking out over everything?" he murmurs against Matthew's collarbone. His attention returns to Matthew's earlobe, and his warm breath stirs the hairs on the back of Matthew's neck. His hands are on Matthew's waist suddenly, and they're like anchors and brands all at once. How strange it is to be glad of being branded.

Alfred's lips brush his temple and then push away an errant curl. Matthew shivers.

"Distract yourself."

Matthew has to think for a moment to remember what they were talking about.

* * *

><p>"He's stopped answering when I call." Angie glares down at her phone. "Hopefully he'll pick up when your new one comes in. Since he won't recognize the number."<p>

The sounds of Alfred telling a joke filters in from Eduard's room. The two of them are supposed to be working on a particularly difficult problem set together, and Matthew knows firsthand that Alfred has this sneaky way of studying that involves more screwing around than thinking. And it somehow works better anyway. _He is infuriating._

"You should try calling him. Maybe he's psychic, and he'll pick up if it's you."

Matthew dials, irrationally certain that Angie is right and Francis is psychic and he's going to have to come up with something to say in the next two seconds—but it just rings and eventually goes to voicemail. "I called the hospital, and the nurses always say he isn't feeling well. That's code for 'he doesn't want to talk to you.' But he's has to go home in a week! What if he isn't ready?"

Alfred is starting a new joke "…group of Polish scientists hijack…"

And Angie is saying something about medical coverage, and wondering if they should sell the house and rent an apartment, maybe find Francis a roommate to look out for him; but Alfred is shouting the punch-line, "I'm just a simple Pole in a complex plane!" and Eduard is laughing, which is so rare of him to do, and Matthew wishes they were in the same room so he could let Alfred know that his voice glows in the dark. But Angie doesn't know they're together yet.

Alfred is a secret he has to keep from her, and everything she's saying is a secret he has to keep from _him_, and it's like being drawn and quartered, the way he is twisted and tugged between all his stupid secrets. He's living twice over, once as a mourning brother and once as a joyful young lover, and they're both true but mutually exclusive and it's driving him crazy, it really is.

So he goes to Gilbert.

"So what, exactly, is your problem?" Gilbert's hunched over his laptop, presumably doing homework. He's got that manic gleam in his eye, the one that says he has a Unit Operations project due soon and he's this close to strangling a slacker groupmate.

"I don't want to tell everyone everything, but it's driving me crazy not to."

"What, did Alfred finally make a move on you? Well jeez, Birdie, don't look at me like that. I have eyes. It's not a big deal to me, and you know Angie wouldn't have a problem with it. So what's yours?"

Jesus God, is everyone around here psychic? Or is Matthew really that unobservant? "It's just that with what happened…with Francis, I don't think it's a really good time. I think it would look to Angie like I don't even care about what happened, you know? And she's been insinuating that I don't—that I don't even—" he cuts himself off there, because there is no way he's going to open the can of worms labelled FRANCIS on Gilbert. "And this would just look really bad. Like I'm not mourning properly, or something."

Gilbert leans back in his chair (and Matthew's heart somersaults when he nearly tips all the way over, but Gilbert's hand catches the corner of the desk and he balances). "Why do the two necessarily have to be related?"

"Because everything is related!"

"Angie's not a holisticist, or whatever those everything-is-connected people are called."

"Holist. And that's not really what I meant. It's just that all we've talked about for a whole month is Francis, and when she finds out that I got myself a boyfriend midway through all that, and never even told her—she'll either be pissed or she won't, and I don't know which is worse."

The front legs of the chair drop back to the floor on _worse. _Matthew jumps.

"Alright, you've maybe got a point there. What do you plan to do?"

"I don't know. I don't know how to tell Angie about Alfred; I should have already. I don't know how to tell Alfred about Francis; I should have already done that, too. And it's too late! It's too late to do it…I don't know, with honor. At this point it's obvious I've been keeping secrets and everybody is going to be mad at me and I'm stressed out enough as it is, _fuck's_ sake."

"No need to pull out all that pretty hair." Matthew drops his hands and tries to pretend he isn't on the verge of violently combusting with anxiety. Gilbert studiously plays with his pen to give Matthew's face the space to be honest. "Angie's pretty stressed herself, man. So I can't promise any sympathy from her. But Alfred's a good guy. If it's driving you crazy, then just fucking _tell_ him. No need to make it this big complicated thing in your head. That makes it worse. Now get out of my room, I'm done being Agony Aunt for today." He throws a Hershey's kiss at Matthew on his way out, which is his way of being affectionate.

Gilbert's solution is the best and most obvious; putting it out in the open is bound to make it simpler and less threatening and so much cleaner than the inside of Matthew's head. What is philosophy but the profession of making things big and complicated in your head?

But Matthew doesn't want to say it out loud. He likes keeping things tangled up inside himself, his own to control and expand and tie together with everything else. He likes for things to seem big and complicated sometimes, because when everything is stark and simple it's so easy to see how it doesn't mean all that much, really, unless you make it. Unless you build it up inside your head.

* * *

><p>He feels the secret wedge itself into the spaces between them. It's a sneaking, creeping, subtle thing; they'll be amiably watching a trivia show or arguing about whether Descartes' greater contribution was to math or philosophy when it strikes: Matthew will suddenly feel quite apart from the material world. He locks himself inside himself for a flash, and in that box he wonders: how is it possible to enjoy life not even a month after Francis attempted? How? And has he really? Has he really gotten up every morning and read the paper and watched television and kissed a boy and allowed himself to feel happy? Have things really just kept on <em>going<em>?

That's how it works. The earth keeps twisting as it circles the sun, and things just keep on going.

It doesn't seem right.

He'd love to talk about it with Alfred, but Alfred wouldn't truly understand. Because he doesn't know. He's one of those people leaving Matthew behind, moving along with the world and completely unaware that Matthew is fallen and reeling.

The distance widens most of all when Matthew's inside the box, and he doesn't say a word about it, and Alfred keeps laughing and kissing him and he doesn't even know.

* * *

><p>that whole tinsel story happened irl with my siblings and me, because the four of us are the coolest two-year-olds on earth<p>

Happy Valentine's Day! I'll be spending it with my homework. It would appear that my professors' OTP is Maureen/soul-crushing workload. Please Review!


	13. Chapter 13

**The Selfish Sickness  
><strong>by Positively

.

**Notes:** Um so, this is wayyyy late, but now I'm done with school! So I swear on the grave of my great-great-great grandfather who invented the Fundamental Theorem of Calculus (part i) that I won't be this slow at updating again. Also I went and reread through your reviews for inspiration and actually got all shoujo teary-eyed you guys are the BEST

"If this isn't nice, I don't know what is" is a quote from Vonnegut's _A Man Without a Country. _Vonnegut's a cool dude.

.  
>.<p>

* * *

><p>"I'm boooooored."<p>

Even as his shoulders are poked, prodded, and shoved, Matthew resolutely does not look up from his book.

"Matt. Mattie. Matthew. Stop ignoring me, I'm boooored." Alfred rubs his face against Matthew like an affectionate cat. His pleas for attention have grown steadily more ridiculous with every passing minute; soon, Matthew is sure, he's going to start stripping. Which will probably definitely work. "Matthew. Pay attention to meeee. I'm _bored._"

"Well I'm annoyed. You're annoying me."

"Whatcha gonna do about it?"

Matthew holds his book above his head while Alfred flops heavily against his chest. "Maybe I'll get a new boyfriend who doesn't expect me to cater to his every whim and fancy at all hours of the day."

"What! No." Alfred scrambles up to sit on the other side of the couch, ramrod straight. "I'm sorry, I'll be good now. A good Alfred. Quiet. To be seen and not heard." He folds his hands on top of his lap, wearing a mock-serious expression. _We'll see how long _that_ lasts_, Matthew snorts to himself skeptically. He has been trying to read these forty pages (on which he has a test tomorrow) for an entire hour, and hasn't gotten very far at all, what with the constant interruptions of "How about a kiss?" and "Are your feet ticklish?" and "I think you're lying, everybody has ticklish feet, I'm gonna prove it." Then there was the incident of the Specs Switch, when Alfred stole Matthew's glasses off his head and discovered to his delight that the two of them wore approximately the same prescription. He's been trying to stealthily replace Matthew's round ones with his own square-ish ones ever since.

The following silence is a hollow victory, because now Alfred is making funny faces at the wall. Every time Matthew tries to catch him at it, though, the face is dropped instantly in favor of an over-the-top innocent expression.

"Fine, we'll play a game," Matthew sighs.

"He is merciful after all!" Alfred throws himself across the couch, head knocking against Matthew's chin. "Ouch, sorry. What's your game?"

"Riddles. What have I got in my back pocket?"

"The Precious?"

"As in the One Ring? Nope, try again."

"Aw, c'mon. This is totally unfair. Even in _The Hobbit_ this was a dick move on Bilbo's part. Like, this isn't a riddle. It's a guessing game."

"Well, then you get as many guesses as you want! I'm not going to _eat_ you if you get it wrong." Alfred tries keys, a phone, a wallet, a fine ass (he is smacked for that one), and an alternate dimension before giving up.

"Your name."

"What?"

Matthew wrestles it out of his back pocket. Somehow wedged between the pages are his credit card and some loose change, which falls between the cracks of the sofa. "Pocket Tennyson," he explains as Alfred digs under the cushions (and Matthew's fine ass) for the dropped coins. "Alfred, Lord, that is."

"Is Tennyson your favorite?" Alfred forces the change into Matthew's side-pocket and cracks the book open, right to "Charge of the Light Brigade."

"Nope, not really. But I've been into Arthurian legend recently. He wrote some good poems on Sir Galahad and the Lady of Shalott."

Alfred smiles distractedly. "My brother would just _love_ you. I need to call him."

"Same," Matthew sighs.

"You need to call my brother?"

Matthew lazily smacks his shoulder with Alfred Lord Tennyson, then kisses it when Alfred (Alfred _Jones, _that is) makes a betrayed face. "No, smartass, I need to call _my _brother." It's true: Francis was supposed to have checked out of the hospital last week. He'd continued to refuse all calls made to the hospital room, and the front desk had never been more forthcoming than, "Yes, he's still here and slated to leave the twelfth." Francis' cell had gone straight to voicemail since the incident. Matthew is honestly not sure what this means as far as his brother's mental health is concerned; maybe he's growing more independent? less in need of an audience? Or maybe he is genuinely not sure how to apologize? demand an apology? Maybe he wants to amp up the drama for his next big catastrophe? Or maybe Francis is driven to madness by his siblings as much as they are driven to madness by him. Maybe Matthew should just stop thinking about it.

"Family's tough."

"You have no idea."

Alfred rolls his eyes. "I think I might just. Speaking of. Are we…when are we…you know. Going to tell people?" Without meeting Matthew's gaze, he backtracks quickly, "I mean, like, if you don't want to, then that's okay and stuff. I just didn't know how many people—or like, if you were 'out' or not, because I'm not really. I don't think? And, so, I don't really know about you, and there could be some complicated things and stuff, and we haven't really talked about it yet, and. Yeah. Are we going to tell people?"

"Um..." Matthew has never been in a Real Relationship before, and this is one of the main reasons why. As far as he's concerned, emotional confrontation is the opposite of a good idea. People hide things for a reason. Talking about relationships feels like jinxing something that works, and, in a year of tragedy and stress and self-examination, Matthew had been hoping for this one area in his life not to require running through minefields. So he hasn't thought much about it. Very willfully and guiltily so, he hasn't thought much about it. "I haven't thought much about it," he says cleverly.

"But…what does that mean?" The helpless note in Alfred's voice is what makes Matthew lean forward and kiss him. Well, try to kiss him. He was aiming for the lips, but ends up on his cheek.

"It's not really a secret on my end. The being gay part, at least. But my sister and I…It might be best if we wait a few weeks on that front."

"Okay, yeah, no rush. I have a ton of friends who would be weirded out by it anyway. But what if we get walked in on?"

Matthew's blushes. "Walked in on?" _Stop talking, Matthew, don't pretend you don't know what he's talking about._ "I mean, like...Like how?" _Smooth. Now he thinks you're an idiot and he'll never kiss you again._

"Like…_this._" Oh. Matthew is tragically aware that he's probably not the best kisser in the world, read: he has no fucking clue what he's doing. Besides going with Alfred's flow. What, after all, makes a kiss good versus bad? Because all he's ever capable of doing is thinking, "Oh wow, there is someone attached to my face and it is surprisingly pleasant," and, "Wait, how move lips? Why good? What do?" (His thoughts are rarely coherent, because, you know, face attached to his face, how strange and distracting.) Basically, the mechanics of kissing escape him when he's thinking about them, and so it's only after he's been well-kissed into mental incoherence that he can really relax enough to enjoy.

Alfred seems to like kissing him though, so that's a good sign.

"Gilbert already knows."

"He what? How?" Alfred's eyes are still trained on Matthew's lips, and he runs a hand up his arm; he seems distinctly uninterested in the answer to his own question.

"He figured it out somehow. I dunno. Psychic, maybe." Matthew's pretty disinterested himself. He draws Alfred's head closer, sniffs at his hair, sweeps his lashes over sensitive ears.

"Maybe. He's okay with it?"

"Yeah, so he says."

"Mm. Whatever."

"Yup. Whatever."

* * *

><p>Sometimes he feels like he's stumbled into a brighter world when he's with Alfred, one that's loud and abrupt and not entirely pleasant. He feels off-balance, like he expected nighttime and found noon instead. It's almost unbearably bright. It isn't in his nature to just accept the good things that fall right into his lap—the bad things, they make sense, always have, but the good things?—and so it's been a very conscious effort to take Alfred's advice: don't worry about it.<p>

But it doesn't last long, because he is who he is, and who he is is mistrustful and cynical (Realistic! he would cut in) and always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Now he senses that he waits for a cataclysm. He waits for all the world to turn into a shattered teapot and bloodied sheets.

It comes in the form of a text message over dinner. Matthew has had two lunches today, because he ate before his noon class and returned to find that Alfred had bought them burgers, fries, and gravy. ("Do you like it? Am I a good boyfriend?" Alfred asked, to which Matthew jokingly replied, "Try _making_ something next time," which made Alfred go over all scheming and thoughtful.) Because he stuffed himself earlier in the day, Matthew doesn't get around to dinner until nine at night.

He pushes aside the half-finished meal and flips open his new phone. Angie says: _can you come up to my room? _Then, a couple seconds later: _scratch that, you need to come to my room._

"Hey Matt, Gilbert just got the funniest booty-text from your sister—"

Matthew gathers his coat and pushes back his chair. "Me too." Alfred starts and gives him a weird look.

"Coming with?" asks Gilbert, already on his way out the door.

"Yeah."

He slams the door on Alfred's confused "Wait, what" and trots to catch up with Gilbert. "Do you know what it's about?"

"Probably not about your brother, if that's what you're trying not to ask." Matthew didn't bother denying it. "She probably wouldn't have texted me too, if it was about him." For whatever reason, the two of them are nearly running across campus to her dorm, quiet and self-contained. Matthew imagines all of the things that could possibly be wrong. He knows he shouldn't, but he's always been self-indulgent. What would she want with the both of them? Why such a terse message? He considers the possibility of an Angie-esque nervous breakdown, and prays for it to be an armed robbery instead. Confronting emotional problems in the Bonnefoy(/Williams) family is akin to running through a minefield. _Maybe__ it's the same with every family_, Matthew graciously allows. Then he trips on an uneven part in the sidewalk and thinks more about putting one foot in front of the other.

When they knock on her door, Angie calls "Come in" in a fairly level voice. She and Katyusha are watching TV Guide, faces turned upwards because the little set sits on top of a dresser. Katyusha gives them a wide-eyed "turn back now" kind of look; Angie's eyes remain fixed on the television in a worrying thousand-yard stare. Matthew cautiously steps forward and hugs her. "Everything okay?"

"Just wanted to talk to you two," Angie says. Matthew and Gilbert exchange skeptical glances.

The perfect calmness of her voice is mostly scary. Angie deals with hysteria by swallowing it completely; she overcorrects against strong emotion and lands on the side of freaky-ass death calm.

"I'm fine. Will you two just watch a fuckin' movie with me?"

"I will go to the library," Kat says swiftly, offering her seat to Matthew and Gilbert. The two boys hold a silent argument about which one of them has to sit next to Angie, consisting mostly of elbow jabs and significant looks, until she calls them assholes.

Uncertainty freezes Matthew's muscles. Should he put an arm around her? Ask what's wrong? Or is she being the sane sort of person (like he is) who would rather deal with it internally than risk fucking it up with words? That was sometimes the case, back in Quebec. For the first time, he wonders how much she'd changed during the three years they spent mostly apart. How much more she must know about Francis, in the same way Matthew knew Marianne best of his siblings, after having to deal with her alone in those years between Francis' escape and Angie's adoption. It sends a shiver down his spine.

Despite her earlier request, Angie doesn't seem to be in any sort of hurry to find a movie to watch. They endure three cycles of the guide's loop of channels before Gilbert breaks the excruciating silence with a slightly desperate, "Angie, are you _really _sure you're okay?"

"Of course not," she says reasonably.

"O…kay then, what's wrong?"

She glares at him like he's an idiot, which is maybe deserved, all things considered. Matthew scratches his own arm as though discomfort is an itch he can scrape off. It doesn't really work, but at least it's something to do with his suddenly restless hands.

"Did our wayward brother call?" He attempts to rest them on his knees, then at his sides. Nope, still awkward.

"No," she says, and it's starting to sound tearful. Oh no. It's cruel and stupid, but Matthew desperately wishes he'd decided to sit this one out. "It's that he hasn't, and I don't want him to. I mean, I want him to, but only to get it over with. I don't know. I'm being a terrible person, and it's stressing me out."

"_Angie. _You are by far the least terrible person in this room," Gilbert insists on her other side, throwing an arm over her shoulders.

"Hey," Matthew protests weakly, mostly for comedic relief.

Angie ignores him. "Just because I'm better at pretending otherwise—"

"And that's what really counts," Gilbert cuts across. "As far as the rest of the world is concerned."

"Well, I'm being concerned for _myself._"

"Well, you should stop doing that."

Matthew has little to no social prowess, but even he can tell that they're doing a pretty shitty job of this. He worries about it in terms of himself, as he typically does: _I am bad at this, how can I get better so I can feel less uncomfortable?_ and not _Angie is miserable, how can I make her feel less terrible?_ This is a chronic mistake of his.

He notices a framed photograph on her desk, a picture of the American foster group that took her in as a child. He recalls that the home was recently demolished.

"Hey, Angie. Listen. I just want to get it over with, too." Matthew resists the temptation to look around, make sure nobody else can hear him being a terrible person. "And, it's like, really tempting to just forget about him, you know, just ignore him as long as he's going to ignore us, right?"

"Exactly! Because, it's like...nobody can make us do otherwise. It's our responsibility. Nobody can _make_ us do anything. But, Matt, that makes it a thousand times harder. Both ways. That makes it harder to call, because we don't _have_ to. And harder not to, because we're like _supposed _to."

"I know," he says, and realizes that this is what being an adult means. Everything is more difficult, both ways.

Gilbert notices that a _Lord of the Rings _marathon is on, and changes the channel.

"Have you tried calling the house phone? I mean, the long-distance will suck, but what choice do we have, apparently. With Francis on a melodramatic rampage."

"No." Angie lets out a sharp, surprised laugh. "Stop saying things like that. You're being really mean."

"What he don't know won't hurt him."

"He tried to kill himself! We should not be—fucking—laughing about it!"

"Sometimes you have to be a terrible person to keep your sanity."

"No, we're _becoming_ terrible people because we've already lost it."

Matthew turns to Gilbert. "What do you think? Are we terrible and insane? Is sociopathy heritable?"

He regards the two with amusement. "You _do_ realize that you're not actually related, right?"

Angie shrugs. "Might as well be." She laughs a little hysterically, turns back to the television set, and makes a joke about Hobbit dicks. It would seem that the conversation is over, and Matthew rolls with it, feeling relieved because he is a terrible person. Later that night, he will regret not pushing the issue, and he knows it, but he cannot for the life of him summon the courage to bring it up again. It's Francis all over again; she isn't going to make him talk to her, and he doesn't want to. Even though everybody knows it needs to be discussed.

"Really though, Angie," he whispers as he and Gilbert take their leave after several hours of_ Lord of the Rings_ and bad infomercials. "We'll call the house phone together. Soon. As soon as it's not…shit, five in the morning. And he'll be fine. And if he's not, we'll _make_ him be fine."

"It doesn't work like that." She glances nervously at the sleeping Kat, who'd stumbled in at two o'clock. "You can't just _force _someone to stop being stupid. You can't just _make _somebody be happy."

"How do you know?" he teases, but she responds with complete seriousness:

"Because that doesn't work on you."

* * *

><p>The door unlocks quietly enough, but the hinges are another matter: they scream even as Matthew pushes all of his weight down on the doorknob. It's a compulsion he'd developed at the house in Quebec, sneaking out of his room to the kitchen on the go-to-bed-without-dinner nights. It isn't as effective as he remembered.<p>

"Smooth," hisses Gilbert.

Matthew runs a hand through his tangled hair and wonders if he should take a shower right now or tom—later this morning. Maybe he could skip his nine o'clock class? Yes, that sounds like a really wonderful idea right now. He stumbles into the common room, already imagining his soft bed…

And stops at the kitchen's entrance. He stares at the apparently dead body crouched on the linoleum and thinks, Christ, what a night.

But then Alfred stands up and turns around, and several things happen in rapid succession:

1. Matthew sees the full bowl of batter in Alfred's arms.

2. Gilbert flicks on the kitchen lights.

3. Alfred flails a greeting at his two returning suitemates.

4. The bowl of batter slips from his arms and clatters to the floor, upended, splattering all parties.

Matthew considers being angry, but then he catches sight of Gilbert's frozen, batter-speckled face, and decides to be amused instead. "Uhhh, Al, is there any particular reason you're cooking at five in the morning?"

"Post-coital pancakes!" he says cheerfully, like this is not one of the weirdest statements ever uttered in a dorm kitchen at five in the morning.

"That doesn't answer the question," Matthew offers, and is roundly ignored.

Gilbert snaps himself out of his fury-paralysis. "Dude, Alfred, Angie and I wouldn't have had sex with Matthew _right the fuck in the room_-"

Al looks inappropriately scandalized. "What? I wasn't suggesting that at all. I thought you guys were having a kinky threesome."

There is an awkward pause during which Alfred licks a glob of batter off his wrist and Gilbert stares at him, outraged. "Okay," Alfred smacks, "would you like any 'maybe you'll get some next time' pancakes?"

Gilbert sighs in disgust and takes a shower.

"First of all, Alfred, you'd feel like a dick if you knew the real reason why she called us."

"Then don't tell me, please."

Another pause, this one thoughtful. Matthew considers the implications of the request and Alfred considers his toenails, which need clipping.

"So what was your second point?" It is a mark of eerily similar eccentricity that Matthew knows exactly what Alfred is asking about. (It has been deeply bothering Matthew for approximately forty-six seconds that he hasn't been able to finish his numbered tirade.)

"Second of all, any and all ingredients you used to make that belong to either myself or Eduard-"

"Hey, where's your romantic spirit? My flour is your flour and all that-"

_"Third of all_, don't even pretend you know how to cook pancakes-"

"Hey! I was doing all right until you scared the batter right out of my hands!"

"You were on the floor, for god's sake. Sleeping, or something."

Alfred mutters something.

"Licking. You were licking the floor?"

"I'd spilled some batter!"

Matthew has at least four more points to his numbered tirade, but decides against voicing them. Not worth it. Not even close to worth it. "Good night, Psycho."

"Wait, wait, wait! You should stay up with me! Teach me your ways, O Lord of All Pancakes. I bow to your Almighty Spatula." Alfred bows deeply.

Matthew's limbs and mind are heavy, and he would like nothing better than to collapse into bed to steal a few hours' worth of sleep before class. But Alfred looks so hopeful and pathetic, with globs of batter in his hair and streaks on his face from where he tried to wipe it off. Matthew imagines licking him clean.

Seeming to read his mind, Alfred leans against him and smiles. Matthew leans back and returns it. They prop each other up with their own exhaustion. "I want you to stay up with me," Alfred rephrases. "I can't sleep. Will you stay up with me?"

Matthew heaves a sigh and reflects that this kitchen has seen everything. "Well, if this isn't nice, I don't know what is."

And that's how he ends up making pancakes at five o'clock on a Tuesday morning with Alfred Jones.

* * *

><p>"Recursiveness?" he mutters. "Endless loop. Of self-referentialism. Self-reference. Meta-self? Recursivity? Son of a bitch." He gnaws compulsively on his blue pen and just <em>dares<em> it to explode on his tongue. It's happened before. Maybe he ought to take the hint and treat his pens better. "Senior theses are _stupid_."

Matthew is unfortunately sitting alone in his room, talking to himself like a crazy person and wondering what foul demon possessed him to enroll in the Honors College. Now he must write a senior thesis (which also involves the horrifying process of defending it before a panel of judges), with the result that he will be recognized at commencement for "graduating with honors." Like, who gives a shit? Had he really been so vain as a freshman to think that _writing an honors thesis _was worth a gold sash and ten seconds extra recognition?

The answer is probably yes. Younger Matthew had liked his little distinctions. Well, he still does, right? He examines himself for the answer and discovers that, no, he's actually on the road to becoming a burned-out lazy sack of shit. Alfred must have put him on that road. Alfred with his instant gratification, and his unfair ability to make Matthew happy and make him never want the happy to stop. It used to be that Matthew could channel his general dissatisfaction into productivity, but now…

"He's turning me into a right Dionysian, is what he's doing."

Stupid Alfred. Stupid thesis. _Especially_ stupid thesis.

"It'll be good practice for your dissertation," Francis had said. He was probably right. Francis has this annoying tendency to be right about a lot of things, and then really really wrong about a lot of other things. Both fortunately and unfortunately, he and Matthew are typically right about the same things and wrong about the same things, with the end result that they agree about almost everything, and their conversations only reinforce their beliefs. Be they the right ones or the wrong ones.

But it's so nice to have a kindred spirit. For the first time in a month, Matthew really and truly misses his brother, instead of just dreading the implications of his prolonged absence. And he's maybe feeling a little impulsive after his chronic sleep deprivation, and maybe he's a little unwise and a lot masochistic to do this, but he does it anyway.

"'allo?"

"Hey, Francis."

There is a long pause during which Francis is obviously trying to decide whether or not he will stay on the phone, if his shared genes with Matthew mean anything at all. Finally he sighs, "Matthew. How are you?"

"Good, how are you?" It's so stupid he passes straight through wanting to kick himself and lands on hysterically amused. "Sorry, that was dumb. What I really meant to ask was _why the fuck have you not spoken to me in three weeks."_

A shocked pause, and then, "For the same reasons you have been glad of it, I imagine."

Oh, that was a deft cut, but Matthew's hide has grown thick with resentment left to fester. "I've tried calling you. At the hospital. On your cell. Several times."

"Oh. Imagine that."

It's so _cruel, _like the way he used to taunt Marianne ("Oh, and _you're _one to lecture me on sexual mores"), like the way he used to turn away jilted lovers at the door ("Did you ever pause to wonder why the number I gave you had the wrong area code? No? Well, I didn't exactly bed you for your intelligence; I suppose it's my fault for not expecting that"). Matthew can feel the cold rage of his adolescence descending, and a sane part of him warns that this is a very bad idea. But he is loath to give up on his passion now that it's been reawakened.

"Do you have any idea how _worried _I've been?"

"As worried as you get about everything. Maybe even as worried as the 'big' things, like your attendance record and whether or not your professors like you."

"As worried as you were about me all those years ago, stranded alone with Mama?"

"Oh, so you dare to acknowledge her _now."_

"Well, you're basically her ghost come back to haunt me. I guess there's no reason not to at this point."

They've fallen into a queer dance of wit that they rarely cared to engage in before. It might have been fun, if the stakes were lower and the cuts shallower. Suddenly Matthew realizes that the only time he really and truly understands how the two of them are related is when they're hurting each other. The sane part of his brain begins to break through, saying, _You're playing into his hands. He's being the villain, just like you always wanted him to be._

The thought is so chilling that Matthew inhales deeply and says, "Wait. This is not going the way it's supposed to." God only knows why the two of them are so fond of their ruthless self-sabotage. _In love with your own sad story, _Gilbert's words echo. "I didn't call you to yell at you and be a total douchebag."

"Could have fooled me."

"Yeah, well. Sorry." He can't make it sound sincere for the life of him, but then again he's never believed in the power of the word. A true apology is made in action, and he's got time to make it. Later, of course. "I called to find out if you're doing okay. And to tell you that…whatever's between us, Angie doesn't deserve this. You need to call her, or pick up when she calls."

"It's cute that you think I'll do it just because you say so. You think I don't want to?"

"Then why don't you?"

"For the same reason you didn't try very hard to reach me before now. I don't know what to say to her."

It's funny how they're all in the same boat, all guilty parties alike. "Well, she doesn't know what to say to you." His tone becomes frustrated without his permission. "Nobody knows what to say! So you get to make it up."

"That is not nearly as comforting as you seem to think it is."

Maybe not. "Do you want to talk about anything? How is the-?"

"No, I don't want to talk about anything. But I appreciate you calling." Angry accusations, name-calling, _anything _would have been kinder than that click of the receiver.

Conversations with Francis have always driven Matthew sad and crazy; he should have thought about that before interrupting his work. "Now the night is ruined for it,_"_ he sighs, curling up on his bed around his crinkled notebook paper and feeling almost as pathetic as he looks.

* * *

><p><strong>AN<strong>: Next chapter we hear from Alfred and there is Valentine's Day and fun stuff like that. I will probably be updating Wanderlust and my tumblr things before this one, and also publishing this PruHun oneshot, but don't worry. I am like Rick Astley wit my fic. Never gonna give it up.


	14. Chapter 14

**The Selfish Sickness  
><strong>by Positively

.

**Notes:** So hey remember when I thought that having free time would make me more productive? Ha ha. That was funny. If it's any consolation, that M rating is finally getting some exercise.

* * *

><p>The first day Alfred suspected that there was something very wrong with his brother coincided with his tenth birthday party. A day that should have been all presents and friends and cake (enough cake to put Alfred into a food coma for half an hour before he spat up and demanded more) ended with Arthur shutting himself up in his room with the lights off and trying to convince Alfred that their parents were demons.<p>

For a long time, his mother had perpetuated the belief that her step-son Arthur was on the "delicate" side; he got overwhelmed easily, she liked to say. Alfred liked to call him a big baby. Back when Arthur had been ten and Alfred four, back when they only saw each other on the annual get-together in England, they used to wrestle in the dirt and play make-believe all the time. But when he got older and moved in with them, Arthur didn't like talking to or playing with anybody. Alfred concluded that growing up makes you into a wimp.

His half-brother suffered from terrible migraines and sudden fits of misanthropy—not in the philosophical sense, a mindset that many of his peers espoused—but in a literal aversion to human touch, human sounds, and even the sight of his own little brother.

"Rebellious phase," their dad told Alfred when he asked. "One day it'll happen to you, too."

And Alfred believed him until his tenth birthday party.

He'd knocked on Arthur's door with the intention of showing off his new airsoft dart-gun, possibly with a practical presentation. Maybe it would make him feel bad for missing his little brother's present-opening ceremony.

"Let me in, Arthur! I wanna show you something."

He yelped when the door swung suddenly inward, spilling him onto the floor. Blinking and trying to adjust his eyes to the darkness of the room, Alfred noted that his knees were raw but probably not bleeding.

"Shut and lock the door, you idiot," Arthur growled.

Alfred scrambled up to obey without asking why. "Did you see my new dart-gun, Arthur?"

Arthur ignored him. "Lock the door."

"I just did!"

"Liar! _Lock the door!"_

"O_kay,_" Alfred grumbled, blinking away angry tears, and mimed re-locking it. Sometimes Arthur was like this: he had to be absolutely certain that doors and windows were shut tight. He was a cautious guy, and Alfred was used to it by that point.

Apparently his acting satisfied Arthur, who sat back down on his bed with hunched shoulders. "You have to be careful around here. Do you understand that, Alfred?"

By then, Alfred's eyes had adjusted better to the dim lighting of the room. He could see the band posters on the wall—The Beatles, The Clash, Radiohead. There were a few dirty dishes and some laundry piled on the floor, and Alfred wrinkled his nose. If _his _room were this messy, his mom would yell at him to clean it up. "I always make sure my windows are locked before bed," Alfred sighed, in a tone that suggested the phrase was often repeated. "But, look! I got a new—"

"No, that isn't enough! You can't just lock your windows. You have to lock your _doors, _too. I mean your bedroom door. People are inside the house."

"Nuh-uh." He shook his head and tried to wrap his mind around the possibility that Arthur was lying to him. Or, even more confusing, that he was wrong. "There's nobody in the house but me and Mom and Dad. And you." Maybe being reasonable was the best way to handle this. Arthur couldn't be angry at the truth, right?

The huddle on the bed shifted, Arthur shaking his head. "There are things inside of people, though. Monsters. _Demons._" The dark room smelled close and stale and a little bit rotten from the food that Arthur refused to eat. Ten-year-old Alfred felt that something was very very wrong with this. "There are demons inside your mom. And Dad, too."

Alfred swallowed around a sudden lump in his throat. "You're lying. You're just trying to scare me."

"I wish. Alfred, you have to understand. They're coming for me." His eyes were wild and hunted. It occurred to Alfred that his brother believed everything he was saying, and that he was very scared.

"I'll protect you." He brandished his new airsoft gun, aiming towards the door. "I'll keep the demons away, Arthur. I"—sniffle—"I can take them."

"So you believe me?"

"Yes," ten-year-old Alfred lied. "I believe you."

* * *

><p>"Matthew, when is that thing due?"<p>

"I have to submit it for advisor review right after spring break."

"What?" Alfred tears the notebook from his hands and tosses it across the room in what even _he_ recognizes as an overly-dramatic gesture. Matthew stares up at him with a disapproving but not particularly surprised expression. "That's almost two whole months away. I demand that you stop being a stick-in-the-mud and come with me to lunch. Or the library, if you really want to. Or somewhere, I don't know."

"You could keep me company in here," Matthew wheedles.

"I don't _wanna_." Wintertime is the worst part of the year; everybody wants to bundle up inside and sit around being boring and swapping germs. Swapping germs with Matthew is usually a pleasant experience, but _apparently _he's too busy being a good student for that kind of thing right now. Alfred is getting restless and bored of their suite.

"Spring break is actually only five weeks away," Matthew points out.

"Wait, seriously? Does that mean it's going to be warm in five weeks?"

"Probably not. I don't think weather obeys the arbitrary assignment of college holidays."

"Damn."

Matthew takes back his notebook and stares at it, still chewing his pen. Alfred watches him with a stupid smile that he can't seem to help. "Stop staring at me and go study. Your free time is irritating."

"Aw, c'mon, you have _six weeks. _One of which you won't even be in class for."

In the end he is not successful in dragging Matthew away from his work, so he meets up with Antonio at the dining hall. He tries to be warm and sociable, but Matthew's been bringing him down lately. _Something_ is on that kid's mind, and it's maybe a little insulting that he won't share the load with Alfred.

On second thought, he of all people knows that some things are better not discussed.

"So, do you have a girlfriend right now?"

"Huh?"

Antonio repeats the question.

"Um…no, not exactly. Why?"

"Tomorrow's Valentine's Day, hombre. I guess you can be excused for not knowing that, since you're single."

"Heh." Alfred rubs the back of his neck.

"Hey, isn't Gilbert dating your roommate's sister or something? Isn't she a freshman? Kinda weird. I wouldn't let one of my sisters date that creep."

"That creep happens to be your best friend."

"_Exactly."_

"Well, I guess I'll pass along the word," Alfred lies. "But hey, I need to go soon. Bio lab. You know how it is."

"I don't, actually," Antonio says. "Thank Jesus Mary and Joseph."

* * *

><p>For Christmas Arthur had settled in back home, as delightfully prickly and British as ever.<p>

Alfred had poked his head in the door when he got home from the airport. "Hey, brosef. Happy to see me? Of course you are."

Arthur rolled his eyes, but it was definitely just to hide a smile.

"Ah, yes. So excited for another Christmas I'll spend guarding the tree from you. Why would you even try to open all your presents before Christmas, anyway? Takes all the fun out of waiting."

"Oh, don't even. When we were younger you used to be on _my _side."

"Yes, and then I grew up." Arthur pushed himself out of his spinny chair—he'd been reading some thick musty book on fairytales. "I'm about to go make tea and lunch. Would you like something?"

"I… no, I ate on the plane."

"Liar."

Alfred's stomach instinctively sank at the accusation, years of Arthur's unfounded suspicions and paranoia making themselves felt and feared. But Arthur quickly clapped him on the back with a quiet, "Thank you," and all was said.

* * *

><p>"So about this whole Valentines thing…"<p>

Matthew looks up from his textbook with a fuzzy, "Whuh?"

"Valentine's Day. Tomorrow."

"Shit! Would you hate me if I admitted I haven't gotten you anything?"

"Nah, that'd be pretty hypocritical of me." Alfred grins sheepishly, knocking clothes and books off of Matthew's bed. "It kinda completely slipped my mind. I don't really watch much TV anymore. No commercials to remind me."

"Same." Matthew snaps shut his book, aware by now that reading near Alfred is a lost cause. "Scoot over some." He smacks Alfred's knee and stretches out beside him.

"So. What are we doing?"

"I dunno. Always thought of it as a Hallmark holiday. A way to spend money for the gullible and open-fisted." He rubs his sinuses, where his glasses always leave a mark. "Sorry. That's kind of a shitty thing to say now that we're dating, right? I suck."

"Nah, I used to agree. But. Now that we've got each other"—he fake yawns and stretches an arm over Matthew's shoulders—"might as well make something of it?"

"Yeah, I'd like that." He's surprised to discover that this is the truth.

* * *

><p>The salmon turned out surprisingly well, Matthew is willing to admit.<p>

They decided not to do vegetables or appetizers or wine or any of those things that a real restaurant would. Instead they found a score of tiny cheap candles left over from Gilbert's twenty-second birthday party and melted the bottoms so they would stick to various kitchen surfaces. The result when they flick off the lights—a body of darkness barely penetrated by the tiny flames—isn't intimate so much as horror-movie-esque. Despite these things, Matthew has never been more aware of the reality of their relationship.

They're, like, _together. _In a mutual thing. Alfred has a boyfriend, who is him.

"It's nice, having the place to ourselves. You worried about what Gilbert's doing with your sister?" Matthew responds with a vague smile and a, "Angie can take care of herself." They finish their meal in companionable quiet interspersed with chatter about professors and politics.

"I'll do dishes," Matthew volunteers.

"No way! We'll do the dishes together like we cooked together."

"As long as you agree not to splash me with the dishwater."

"I will make no such promises," Alfred mutters, leaning in for a kiss.

* * *

><p>"So, I have an awkward and potentially offensive question." They're back to sitting at the table, fidgeting under the expectations of a new couple on Valentine's Day.<p>

"No, Alfred, I do not give you permission to use my razor _or_ my toothbrush _or _my shampoo—"

"No, it's not about that." Alfred gets a shifty look and starts playing with the matches. The candlelight glints off his square glasses, and Matthew is unsettled by the fact that he has no idea where this is going. He stares at the blue-and-white-striped candles, which were pretty thin and stubby to begin with, now nearing the end of their wicks. It's going to take them hours to clean up all the wax puddles.

"We've been dating for…a month now, right?"

Matthew nods, trying to recall the exact date they got together in January. It was…a week after Christmas break ended? No, just a few days after that. Right? Oh no. He is a terrible boyfriend.

"Well, anyway, I mean, I was wondering. If, you know."

"No, I don't know," Matthew says, a little bit amused but mostly apprehensive.

"Well, we had that make-out session last week…"

Matthew's eyes glaze over and a silly smile spreads across his face. "Yeah, that was nice."

"Right, well. You know, things were getting pretty…hot and heavy, I guess. But then we stopped. And so…I was wondering…if that's something you want to continue doing? I mean, stopping at that point. I mean…do you see where this is going?" His tone is a little desperate now. "Can I stop embarrassing myself yet?"

Matthew doesn't raise his eyes from his plate, suddenly queasy. "Um…are you saying that next time…we shouldn't stop there?"

"No! I mean, yes. I mean…I'm asking for your input. About whether or not you wanted to…save that for later, or if you were ready now, or if I'm gross and you never want to talk to me again…"

"Not that last one," Matthew assures him quickly.

But why are they _discussing _it like this? Obviously that's how relationships must work in real life, but he's only had fictional accounts for a model. In all the romance novels and, yes, in porno, it's something that just _happens_ to you_,_ kicked by the spur of the moment. And it's always just _right. _He'd never imagined that he might one day have to make a calm, reasoned decision about it beforehand. It feels wrong and awkward and too…clinical.

Maybe it's about time he replaced those notions with reality.

But how should he answer that, anyway? He wants to mess around with Alfred, of course he does. He's been dreaming about it since he met the guy. He's almost twenty-two. It's about time he got properly laid, right?

That's a bit of a problem, though. He's almost twenty-two. He's never done anything remotely sexy with another human being. That's really weird, isn't it? Alfred's going to find out that he's inexperienced and weird and worst of all _scared _about the whole thing. And not just scared of—dare he name it so directly—_anal sex_, but also just getting off with another person there. What a vulnerable thing, having somebody there to see his faces and hear his noises. He's only _thinking_ about it and he can already feel his brain imploding in sheer embarrassment…

Yes, he wants it—but more importantly, he wants to not be _scared_ of wanting it.

"I…I do want to try some things. With you." Jesus. It occurs to Matthew that he hasn't looked up from his plate in a few minutes. He valiantly forces himself to meet Alfred's gaze, noting his pleasant flush and miraculous lack of mortification. "Next time…next time that happens, I would be open to going farther. We can decide when we get there, right?"

"We-ell," Alfred begins with a sly smile on his face, "Nobody's here but us. We have two beds all to ourselves…?"

Matthew dazedly notes that his fear isn't all that insurmountable in the face of spur-of-the-moment desire.

* * *

><p>They fall into bed chuckling, too giddy to take offense at each other's elbows and knees in uncomfortable places, jarring jaws and rattling teeth. Alfred kisses the corner of Matthew's mouth; then he takes off both their pairs of glasses and rubs his face against everything like a cat. Matthew breathes in and out slowly, wrapping his arms more tightly around Alfred as though trying to hold him here, still, in this moment when things are good and nobody's doing anything wrong.<p>

But that means not doing anything.

Alfred seems plagued by a certain restlessness, pressing hard kisses into Matthew's shoulder. Yes, they've just discussed being okay with getting…_sexual. _It's Valentine's Day. They're alone in the suite, together in Matthew's bed, after Alfred made him _dinner. _The suggestion of it all weighs heavily in the air, and Matthew instinctively wants out of the situation.

"Closer," Alfred says softly.

Matthew gulps, nervous, _I've never gone this far with anyone before how is it done what do I do this is wrong_. He's trying to wriggle out of Alfred's embrace, but the trap just pinches tighter.

"Hey, what's wrong?"

_Just gotta talk yourself out of the fear_. Intellectually, he wants to do sex things with Alfred. He's been thinking about it, dreaming about it, longing for it since…well, since before they even got together, and isn't that a little bit creepy. He'd just talked himself into agreeing with this! But being plunged into the real deal is suddenly threatening, scary, undesirable. He's too busy trying to stave off a panic attack to identify and dissemble the problem.

"Matt?"

"I'm fine," he murmurs, sounding anything but. When he presses his face against Alfred's shoulder, his blue shirt smells like Old Spice and the salmon they had for dinner. Matthew lets his fingers drift up Alfred's spine, compulsively inhaling each time he taps a knob of bone. The body shivers against him.

Alfred loosens his arms and wiggles a few inches away to examine Matthew's expression.

"Are you really?"

Despite the fact that he keeps the heat cranked up as high as he can get away with, Matthew suddenly feels cold as Alfred's hands leave him. And he's not completely okay, but he wants this, he has for a while, and his stupid inhibitions need to shut the hell up and let him _do _something for once.

"I want this," he says seriously.

Alfred nods, still looking a little uncertain, but doesn't say anything. When he sits up, Matthew tries to protest, but it quickly dies in his throat with an embarrassing _urk. _Because Alfred's fingers are dropping to the hem of his t-shirt, and then he is quite suddenly bare-chested.

Just as suddenly, Matthew regrets keeping the heat up so damn high.

A low pulse of excitement rises in his lower belly and _twists, _and when did breathing get so hard? Alfred lies back down and shifts closer. His chest is very close, winter-pale and gleaming in the lamplight. Is it weird to do it with the lights on? How the fuck should Matthew know? He's never done anything like this before oh jesus oh lord…

Alfred's hands intercept him mid-freakout, tugging at the buttons on his shirt with a frown of concentration. Deciding that this is the right idea, Matthew turns his attention back to Alfred's chest. His fingers hesitate an inch away from their goal, seeming somehow clumsy and too big. Alfred glances down from his apparently strenuous task, then leans forward so that his chest slides across Matthew's fingers. He watches this attentively for a few moments—every muscle in Matthew's body fizzles with desire at the look in his eyes—then jerks frustratedly at the troublesome buttons. "Off, this should be."

"Oh, ew, why are you trying to make me think about Yoda right now?"

Until that moment, Matthew hadn't realized how serious everything had been. And then it's gone. Alfred bursts into ugly laughter, planting his face into the shirt that is suddenly his worst enemy. "Hush now." Tears leak from the corner of his eyes; Matthew helplessly curls into a ball, doubled over with laughter so loud it's silent. "Shh—hh," Alfred insists. "I'm laughing so hard I can't"—gasp—"work my _fingers."_

Matthew succeeds in keeping a straight face for a total of eight seconds.

"Do you want your goddamn shirt off or not?"

When the evil shirt is removed, Alfred eagerly skims his fingers across Matthew's chest. "Cold!" Matthew complains, but even so, snarls of heat erupt in his groin at the sensation. Alfred's fingers get embarrassingly close to his armpits, touching some of the sweat that's collected there. Matthew berates himself first for allowing himself to sweat and then for taking it so seriously. He's almost twenty-two, for god's sake, and it's just a little sweat. Isn't he supposed to find it sexy? It's not.

"What's this?"

Ah. Alfred's questing fingers have found the fat white scar on the left side of his ribcage, shiny and puckered with age. Alfred puts one finger to the scar. The nerve endings register no sensation, but Matthew can sort of feel the pressure of it, and the _idea _behind it is pretty sensual.

"Street hockey incident."

"Oh yeah?" Alfred props his head on his hand. "What, somebody on the other team beat you with their stick?"

"No." Matthew grins mischievously, already anticipating his reaction to the truth. "Actually, they tied me to some guy's bumper with my skates on and drove down a hill."

"_What?_ Like, the bumper of a _car?_"

"Yeah, I hurt one of their teammates pretty bad. I was being dumb. So they gave me a little road rash to discourage it in the future. I have a pretty bad scar on my tailbone, too."

Alfred stares in disbelief for a few moments. "I'm going to interrogate the hell out of you as soon as I'm in a better position to think clearly about this." He seems to recall the position they _are _currently in, and focuses his attention back on Matthew's chest.

"It's not as interesting as it sou—_whah_?!"

Alfred had pushed him without warning onto his back to straddle him, knees on either side of his hips, thumbs pressing uncomfortably into his clavicle. The previous joking atmosphere is abruptly and thoroughly absent, and anxiety curls in alongside the desire in Matthew's stomach.

Alfred gently pulls him up for a kiss.

"What do you want to do?"

Do you really just _ask _like that, Matthew wonders. Is it supposed to be just like…ordering at a restaurant? 'I'll take the blowjob, well-done, hold the dressing'?

Ew.

Unsure of how to respond, Matthew kisses Alfred again with open mouth, exploring the inner edges of his lips with teeth and tongue. Alfred doesn't move, just sits back a little and parts his lips slightly.

"Pants off," Matthew forces out a few minutes later. It's probably the most daring thing he's ever said.

They roll apart briefly, too frazzled and frantic to even bother trying to undress the other. "Fucking belt," they happen to mutter at the same time, and dissolve into giggles again. Alfred completes the task first; when Matthew glances back, he sees that Alfred's left his boxers on. He follows suit, having literally no clue whether it's a significant decision or not.

They lay side-by-side in silence for a few moments. "You on top of me," Alfred urges when neither of them move.

"Um…"

Matthew hesitantly obeys, trying really hard not to meet Alfred's eyes. _I will not combust in sheer embarrassment, I will not combust in sheer embarrassment…_

Matthew's legs and hips flex, trying to position himself more comfortably over Alfred's lower body. The shift in stance presses his hard-on along Alfred's thigh, and the resulting pleasure, hot and sudden, makes him blink and jerk his body again.

"Uh—uhm, this is like. The farthest I've ever gone," he admits with bad timing. _I'm going to combust in sheer embarrassment._

A hand brushes against his cheek, and only then does Matthew realize that he's closed his eyes. "I figured," Alfred murmurs softly from below him, eyes fuzzy and unfocused without glasses. "That's why you're calling the shots tonight."

_That's _stupid_, _Matthew wants to shout. _I don't know what I'm fucking _doing_. _But he'll try.

Alfred's left hand seizes his hip, then slides lower. Matthew leans down so that they're horizontal and bucks forward again, groaning quite without conscious input from his brain. Oh...

Even with his eyes closed, Matthew can feel Alfred's gaze fastened on his face. Should he open his eyes? Should they share a long and loving gaze? Or is that really weird for a couple of dudes casually rutting on a squeaky dorm room bed? Is this casual? Does this count as their first time? Does it make Matthew grody, losing his virginity with his suitemate in a dorm room without even making eye contact?

Then Alfred's breath hitches against his cheek, and it doesn't quite matter anymore.

Matthew's senses slowly spiral out from the pleasure twisting his gut into warm, happy knots. He can feel Alfred's body beneath his, hot and close. Hell, he can smell him. It's a little gross, but Matthew is learning that that's a necessary evil to this whole business. He doesn't necessarily have to be _into _the dirtiness; he just has to put up with it. Which he's happy to do, because most everything else about the entire situation is so mind-blowingly good.

Their bare chests touch. Matthew puts his weight on his forearms, and manages to reach out with one hand to comb a jerky hand through Alfred's hair. The fingers on his hips press him forward.

And Matthew's hip rocks against the juncture of Alfred's legs, and he can feel the hardness there, can hear Alfred's breathy moans when he pushes down.

The bed creaks as Matthew sits up. "Uhm…do you want…I mean, would you…?"

"Probably," Alfred half-whispered, half-gasped. "Whatever it is." There isn't the faintest trace of embarrassment in Alfred's eyes, which is really not fair.

"N-nothing, um, too cray." Did he just say _cray _during an intimate moment? He did, didn't he. _Kill me._ "Just, your hand."

Matthew's brain can't decide if it wants to melt or freeze from the sheer audacity of the exchange. Asking for what he wants has never been one of his strengths. But he's getting more desperate by the moment, and despite Matthew's utter incompetence Alfred's body is still very much interested in the proceedings, so. There's that. He can die of embarrassment later.

Alfred sits them both up, shifting back a couple of inches to let his hand rest squarely on Matthew's erection through the cloth of his boxers.

"Do you want to, uh…" Aha! There's some embarrassment! Matthew is vindictively gratified. "You could sit in my lap, and I could…"

"Okay," Matthew agrees breathlessly, spinning around without grace and scooting backwards on his ass.

"Okay," Alfred mutters, the word smile-shaped and pressed into the back of Matthew's neck. He reaches down to Matthew's boxers, slips beneath the elastic. The hand is already hot and damp, and Matthew tries not to think about the fact that Alfred probably jacks off like this, in his bed—nope, stop. The breath on the back of his neck is coming a little bit faster now, and Alfred's erection presses into his backside.

"God, you're," Alfred gasps, bucking against him and tightening his grip. A long groan drags itself from Matthew's throat, and he makes a mental note to be embarrassed about it later. Alfred tries to stifle his breathing against Matthew's neck, stirring the little hairs there, and Matthew jerks _up _into his hand.

"Alfred..." The name is dragged out on a choking moan, as Alfred's hips grind into him from behind. "I... ngh!" He thrusts into Alfred's fumbling hand and turns his head back, craning his neck and his shoulders, trying to get his lips near Alfred's. It's awkward and uncomfortable, and they're both panting too heavily to do more than brush their lips and breathe on each other.

"Yes, just—that—" He moans again and suddenly notices that the bed's creaking is one of the sexiest sounds he's ever heard. Then Alfred gasps in his ear, an aborted "Ah!" sound, and Matthew is forced to completely uproot and revise his notion of what sexy is.

After that, he's useless for everything but jerking shallowly into Alfred's hand, scrabbling at the sheets with clawed fingers, and groaning. He knows he's close when his legs go heavy and numb, and he stops caring about all of his ridiculous vocalizations, the ugly slip-slick noises that fill the room, his helplessly pumping hips. He jerks when his climax rises, irresistible, crashing, rigid and shaking and desperate for Alfred to keep moving his hand like _that, _right through it and into the aftershocks, yes, like _that_, until he's spent and limp in Alfred's lap.

In a few seconds or maybe minutes of great effort, Matthew turns around to stare up at Alfred, who is looking down at him with slightly parted lips, eyes wide and hungry. His hair is stringy and his upper lip shines unbecomingly with sweat, and this whole thing isn't perfect, but it's pretty damn good. And that's really all they could have hoped for.

Ragged pants fill the space between them. Matthew casts about for what he should say, unsettled by the eye-contact. Is he supposed to say thank you? Or would that be taken the wrong way?

Oh well, the point is moot. He couldn't work his tongue right now if his life depended on it.

It wasn't quite as good as doing it to himself, he reflects, and at the same time it was a thousand times better. Of course Alfred doesn't know Matthew's body as well as the body himself does, at least not yet, and so there were moments when Matthew knew that a different pressure or another inch of skin would have made it better. But it's like the difference between being tickled and trying to tickle yourself, between getting a backrub and trying to massage it with the edge of a desk or something. The element of another human being puts it into an entirely different category of sensation.

The element of another human being also makes the whole thing mortifying and vulnerable and exposed and terrifying and maybe they moved too fast? What if this has forever relegated their relationship to one of sexual gratification over emotional support? Is he being a total girl about this? Is that a good thing or a bad thing?

Matthew has a spreading stain on a pair of boxers that he washed yesterday, he just let his boyfriend of barely a month jerk him off for Valentine's Day, and his face is going to be red for a week. But with Alfred staring at him like that, Matthew can't begin to regret it.

"Your turn," Matthew says, trying to be seductive. Alfred is too far gone in his desire to notice how cheesy it is—and that's really the best it can be.

* * *

><p><strong>Notes:<strong> The main reason that this was so late is because…this is my first time writing a sex scene. Yeah, I was a hundred thousand times more embarrassed writing it than you probably were reading it. But it happened, it's there, so. Reviews appreciated! I'm gonna go crawl in a hole and die now


	15. Chapter 15

**The Selfish Sickness  
><strong>by Positively

.

**Notes:** About ¾ of the way through this fic! Wow, I can hardly believe it. I'm hoping to get it all published before November starts, so I can do my nanowrimo without feeling bad about neglected works in progress. I'm just starting one hell of a difficult semester, though, so we'll see how it goes.

* * *

><p>Matthew has always found the idea of eating in bed erotic. He wonders if it's some kind of oral fixation thing, or maybe it's just the connection of one kind of carnal satisfaction to another. In any case, he isn't ashamed to admit to himself that he's imagined Alfred with a swollen red strawberry between his lips, or his tongue moving against the wet white flesh of an apple.<p>

In reality, Alfred makes no to-do, doesn't even bother choosing something sexy like fruit or chocolate. He just declares without ceremony that "I'm hungry," reaches under the bed, pulls out a bag of (probably stale) Doritos, and starts crunching away.

"This is somehow sexier than I imagined," Matthew admits after a few minutes of watching Alfred eat. Of course it shouldn't be. The whole strawberry fantasy should be much more arousing than a dude shoving Doritos into his mouth and spilling crumbs everywhere, but_ this _isn't a fantasy or idea. This is reality, this is Alfred sitting right in front of him, in his real bed, after real sex, eating. Strings of warmth pull at the bottom of Matthew's stomach warmly, and if he'd been any less thoroughly sated, he might propose another round. "It's actually really hot." Alfred is kind of gross and it makes no sense, but there it is.

Alfred gives a noncommittal "huh," too absorbed in eating to pay Matthew much mind.

So Matthew takes his hand, on its way to the lip of the bag, and ignores his wordless protest. He drags the index finger across his tongue, pulls it into his mouth, swirls his tongue around, sucks a bit, and releases it with an easy slide. Alfred's expression is now one of blank shock.

"Cheesy," Matthew comments, and continues the ritual. He's never tried to be coy before, but now he does, meeting Alfred's eyes from beneath his lashes. The bag of Doritos sags and spills on the sheets.

When he's done with the fingers of both hands he moves on to Alfred's mouth, sucks on his cheesy tongue.

Alfred vocalizes his train of thought: "I will never again be able to eat Doritos without getting a hard on."

* * *

><p>The two of them fell asleep at some point after these Valentine's Day festivities. When the alarm goes off at eight, Matthew wakes up covered in more of Alfred's limbs than seems humanly possible. He isn't so much of a snuggler as a smotherer.<p>

"Ugh, turn it off," Alfred begs in a wrecked voice. He tightens his arms and legs around Matthew's shoulders and waist. His flesh is heavy and unpleasantly warm.

"Ngh. Can't while you're strangling me."

Alfred counterproductively squeezes him closer.

It's a weekday, so Matthew's eyelids reluctantly force themselves open. Dim gray light is caught on wrinkles of the sheets and in Alfred's hair. His face is pressed to Matthew's naked chest, his mouth a little drooly and his nose cold. It's impossible to see if his eyes are open or not. All Matthew can see is the top of his head, his clockwise hair whorl, an endearing little cowlick. The alarm clock blares on.

"Hey, don't you have class right now?"

Alfred unravels his legs from around Matthew's fast enough to scrape them with his toenails. "Shit fuck jesus shit shit," he mutters, scanning the floor frantically. "Where is my closet?"

"You're in my room. Unless you wanna wear yesterday's…"

"No time!" Alfred digs through Matthew's dresser, ignoring his weak protest of, "Hey, I was gonna wear that shirt today."

Matthew blearily sits up, stretching his arms. His shoulders crack like marbles hitting a stone floor. "Class is dumb, stay here with me."

"Can't. Got a quiz." Now fully dressed in record time, Alfred grabs a pair of glasses from the bedside table. "Love you," he says, in a tone completely devoid of the significance Matthew would expect for the first I-love-you, and he leans down and kisses him with sour breath.

It isn't until Matthew gets out of bed that he realizes Alfred took the wrong pair of glasses.

When he stumbles out of his bedroom after Alfred, wearing sex hair and Alfred's specs, Gilbert laughs at him for a full five minutes.

* * *

><p>"Our prescriptions are basically the same," Alfred defends later that day. "You're a little bit more nearsighted though, right? Everything looks so tiny…"<p>

"Just give 'em back." Matthew rubs at his temples, trying to banish the migraine that he'd named "Alfred" in a fit of petulance.

"They're so cute," Gilbert says loudly from the other room. Antonio, who's helping him with Spanish, agrees cheerfully.

"Shut the fuck up." Alfred's tone is playful, but Matthew wants to shout it at them very loudly. Because he could trust Gilbert to keep the secret, but now that Antonio knows, it's not a secret anymore. And his own sister still doesn't know.

He's going to have to fix that soon.

Later.

"Oh yeah, I almost forgot." Antonio appears in the doorway, Gilbert following behind.

"In a couple weeks, my fraternity is throwing a pre-spring break party for all the lucky bastards without midterms—and all the poor suckers who plan to fail them. You guys interested in going?"

"Sure," says Alfred easily, like he didn't just frantically search for an excuse not to go before agreeing in defeat. Then Matthew remembers that that's just him.

"I don't know, I feel like I shouldn't…"

"C'mon, Matt." Alfred grins knowingly. "Don't be such a party-pooper. The grad schools you applied to won't be able to see your grades from this semester! Decisions are already being made. They're _stuck _with you."

"Have you got any decisions back yet?"

"No, and stop trying to avoid the subject."

"Alfred." It wasn't his intention to use the "This is a Serious Thing We Need to Discuss" relationship voice, but Antonio and Gilbert exchange a nervous look and edge toward the door. Matthew recovers himself and stammers, "Um, I'll get back to you guys on that. Have to see…if I need to study that week."

"Okay," Antonio replies easily, but Alfred's expression lets him know that they will indeed Discuss this later.

In the shower that night, Matthew calls himself eight hundred different kinds of idiot. It isn't like he has anything better to do with his time, right? Only he does, because parties are stupid and unstimulating for an introvert and nerve-wracking besides. He hates the noise and the bad food and the lack of good conversation. There's really nothing to be gained from it.

Alfred's an extrovert, though, and for some reason he's really into being around other people. He's really good at it too, he's charismatic and funny and attractive and everybody wants to listen to him. Sometimes, when he's around Alfred, Matthew feels like he could learn to be an extrovert too. Maybe there _is_ something to this crazy thing they call social interaction.

But the old jealousy comes back, the fact that Alfred is open and friendly with everyone, that the whole world knows what a great person he is. He gives himself away, and that's why everyone loves him, but Matthew kind of wants to keep him all to himself.

Stupid, selfish train of thought. Stop that.

The fact remains that Matthew will not enjoy himself at a frat party, not even a little bit, and the fact that Alfred will is…worrisome. They are very different people, Alfred and Matthew. Shouldn't they want to do everything together? Shouldn't Alfred offer to stay in with Matthew and be happy about it, shouldn't Matthew insist on going with him and be happy about it?

Then there's the whole sex thing. Was that code for, "We're just blowing off steam, this is a casual relationship with benefits, no need to get obsessive and clingy like you do with everything, Matthew"? It probably was. Relationships made to last don't get sexual this fast, right? Especially if one of the involved parties says "I love you" like it means nothing.

And anyway, the whole thing seems kind of ill-advised, it being second semester of their senior year in college. They'll have a total of four months together before they have to go to grad school, probably a thousand miles apart knowing Matthew's luck, and what the fuck is the point anyway? If Matthew's not going to go to Alfred's parties and Alfred is going to go anyway and make the rest of the world fall in love with him, then what's the fucking point?

And then what's the point of anything at all ever, and Matthew decides he needs to stop having existential crises in the shower because that wastes water.

When he opens the bathroom door, Alfred is standing there holding his toothbrush.

"Took you long enough, man. Thinking of me?"

Matthew can feel himself blushing under the flush of hot water. "N-no," he stammers.

"Liar." Alfred's being playful, but he's right. And not in the way he thinks.

* * *

><p>"Tomorrow I don't have class until ten," Alfred says. With an ear to his chest, it sounds to Matthew like a warm rumble. "So I think I can fall asleep in here without being late to class."<p>

"This bed is kinda small, though."

"Oh." His tone is a little cold, and Matthew knows he deserves it. He also knows that they need to talk about everything, a lot of things, like, a _lot _of things, like the fact that Matthew's brother tried to kill himself recently, and that fact that his sister doesn't know about the two of them yet, and how those two things are all tangled up in each other, and the fact that Matthew is kind of freaking out about where all this is going.

They don't.

"See you in the morning?"

"Yeah, love you," Alfred says, so casual again, and kisses his neck.

Matthew watches his back and wants to cry.

He shouldn't _say _it like that. It isn't fair.

* * *

><p>"Hey, Angie. I kind of have something to tell you."<p>

"Go for it," she says, barely paying attention. They're in the library, both studying for their midterms at the end of the week. There is little privacy here, as a great number of formerly lackadaisical students have suddenly realized that they don't know anything. That's one of the reasons he chose this location.

Matthew's been dreading this week for a number of reasons:  
>1) he's going to have to either refuse Antonio's invitation and disappoint Alfred <em>or <em>he's going to have to go socialize in a manner he hates;

2) he does, in fact, have two tests on Friday, both of which will involve spontaneous essay-writing;

3) after all that's over, he's going to have to drive ten hours to Quebec and see Francis for the first time since Christmas, talk to him for the first time since their single horrible phone conversation; and

4) it's about time he told Angie that he and Alfred are dating.

"Go for it," she'd said, but that's never really been one of his strengths.

"Well. Um. You see."

"Hang on, do you know Newton's Method?"

"Nope, sure don't."

"Damn. Okay, continue."

_Alfred and I are dating. Alfred and I are dating. _Nah, too formal. _Me _and Alfred are dating? Yeah, much better. Only he's still in an interrogative tone of mind, which comes out when he says askingly:

"Me and Alfred are dating?"

Angie jerks back in her chair, upsetting the thousand-page textbook perched on its arm. It falls to the floor with a bang that turns the heads of half the students in the room, but she's already leaning forward to hiss, "Seriously?"

"Yeah," Matthew admits, bending over to pick it up for her. He's glad for the excuse to dodge her incredulous scrutiny. "Well, kinda. I dunno, actually, what to call it. But we've…kissed. And stuff."

"This sounds like a conversation for a not-library, huh?"

"No," Matthew protests weakly, but it's too late. She's packing her bags and soon he'll be away from the librarians' protection.

_She's gonna yell at me. She's gonna yell at me a lot._

If he were better at lying, or even interested in trying, he could dodge the shitstorm to come. Easily. He and Alfred had kept it a secret from everybody but each other for a fairly long time; he only had to warn Alfred that people would be better off thinking this a recent development. And all would be right with the world.

But Matthew doesn't understand the concept of lying to cover one's own ass, and he certainly doesn't consider that some people might be better off deceived. He's a philosopher, of the earnest variety. He likes truth, not mucking about with ethical ambiguities.

And so he's going to tell Angie the truth about when this all began—not too long after they got back from winter break, mere weeks after Francis' attempted suicide. _She's too nice to accuse me of not caring about the whole Francis thing_, Matthew thinks optimistically, _but she sure is going to kick my ass for keeping it a secret this long._

So when they get out of the library, he admits, "He told me he loved me."

Angie stops short. "He _what_?"

Outside the library are little picnic tables, and Matthew tries to walk past her to sit at one of those. Angie doesn't follow. When he beckons, she just stares at him blankly.

"I'm sorry, _what?_"

Matthew beckons harder from the picnic table. It seems that everyone in the general vicinity is watching them. When she finally sits, Angie meets Matthew's eyes with a sort of dangerous and vulnerable gravitas and asks That Question: "How long has this been going on?"

"A while," Matthew says evasively. "The point is that he keeps telling me things like, 'Love you,' in contexts that are really too casual for my tastes and—"

"Have you said it back?"

"What?" he asks despite having heard the question.

"Have you said it back."

"Uh…no."

"Matthew!"

"The situations he brings it up in are just not—! It's like, we haven't talked about it. And he didn't really…seem to _expect _an answer. He didn't exactly wait around for one. And it's like—he just _said _it. On his way to class, he just like leaned down and kissed me and said, 'Love ya, bye.' I really didn't know how to respond."

Angie frowns. "Do you, though?"

"What?" Matthew asks, despite having understood the question.

"Do you love him."

_Do I love him_? Well, love seems like a pretty strong word. They've been good friends for a total of five months, and together for something like two months. Less than that. More than that? Shit, Matthew is a terrible boyfriend. The point is, Matthew thinks that love is supposed to be something you _know_ after a long time. That it happens gradually, that by its nature takes a long time to build up before one day you look down and say, "Oh yeah, then, I guess we are in love." He _wants _to love Alfred. He's on his way to doing so, he's pretty sure.

But then again, he's never even been in a real relationship before. "Do I love him." And so he answers with his two favorite questions, in reverse order: "How the hell am I supposed to know? What does it even mean?"

Angie shrugged. "Beats me, little brother," and Matthew does not correct her. "But no rush. As long as he doesn't ask you directly, he doesn't have the right to expect you to say it. Right? So what else have you two done?"

"Um…isn't this like the equivalent of guys telling their guyfriends how far their girlfriends will go?"

"Yeah, exactly, turnabout. C'mon, I doubt _Alfred _would mind. How is he in the sack?"

He blushes and stammers, and Matthew can tell by the look on Angie's face that she'd asked that as a joke and is shocked to see that Matthew can answer.

Voice going very quiet, she asks, "How long _have _you two been together? Exactly." Uh-oh. It's the freaky-ass death-calm again.

The breeze whistles through a couple of leafless Crepe Myrtles, and Matthew draws his coat tighter around himself. Spring break is four days away, and he remembers Alfred (four handjobs, two I-love-yous ago) wondering if that meant it was going to get warm soon.

"A couple months. Less. Midway through January." Before Angie can get that victimized look on her face and ask, "Why didn't you tell me?" he launches into an explanation. "It's just that it seemed like really bad timing, and I wasn't sure where the whole thing was going and if it was really going to happen, I'm still not really sure about it with the way he just throws around the word 'love,' I don't know what any of this means to him, and anyway I wasn't sure if you really wanted to know, because of the whole thing with—the whole thing with Francis…"

He looks up from his white knuckles. Angie's eyes narrow. "Ah." Her voice is flat, having reached the bottom of it. "The thing with Francis."

"Yeah," Matthew says. She stares at him, stubbornly silent, but he's too afraid to elaborate. His foot's already in his mouth; talking now would just bite at his own toes.

"I seem to recall you having a tough time with 'the thing with Francis.'"

An excruciating silence. "Um. What do you mean?"

"I _mean, _I was under the impression that you and I were on the same page, being miserable and whatnot. But really the whole time you had a little friend to kiss it better? I mean goddamn, Matthew, I wish you'd have just fucking _told_ me. Why is everything such a secret with you? Why did you feel the need to hide the fact that you were happy. Why did you have to overact at being sad?"

Matthew can't figure out which sentiment is the true one: _I'm angry because I would have been happy for you_, or _The fact that you went out and kissed a boy at a such a time indicates that you are a horrible person_.

Either way, she's angry. Angie likes to keep her emotions tightly under control, likes to think hard before she lets herself act on them. Her current tone sniffs at the anger, tasting it out. She's deciding whether or not to let it build. Matthew's defense mechanism is to remain silent, which is really probably the worst thing you can do when somebody reasonable is angry at you for reasonable reasons, but he doesn't know how to open his mouth. He's almost afraid to diffuse the situation, like maybe he knows he doesn't deserve to defend himself.

"I still don't understand your motivation here. Is it you don't want people to know that you have something to be happy about? Is this more of the Bonnefoy family tradition that you and Francis and Mama are all so fond of? Like happiness is something to be ashamed of? Like you can't let people know you feel it, like you can only let other people see you mope?"

_That's not true_, Matthew thinks viciously, silently. _I don't mope. I let myself feel happy._

"Or maybe Alfred's not worth mentioning yet, since he's still around. That's how you guys operate, right? Everybody's a character in your little tragedy. Can't have a happy little boyfriend without him actually turning out to be a bad thing, right?"

"Stop," Matthew manages to whisper. He can't hear this, he really can't. Or he'll end up like them, like he's always worried he will, like she's implying he will.

Angie tugs irritably on her long dark hair, not meeting his eyes. But he can see her anger in the noble set of her shoulders and jaw. She looks like a queen when she's angry.

Matthew reflects that he's never been angry like that. His anger is hot and misdirected and violent and ugly, and he hasn't let himself feel it since high school. Maybe it means he's grown up into the kind of person who has nothing to be mad about. The kind of person who upsets everyone around him, but sits calmly in the middle, the eye of the storm.

"I'm going back to the library," Angie says tightly, offering no invitation for him.

Matthew knows he ought to beg her to stay, to tell her that he's sorry, to at least try to explain the twisted inner workings of his stupid maze mind, but he doesn't. He lets her walk away.

He will cause the problems for everyone else and take their anger as he can, as the guilty do, and he thinks the word for that is martyr.

It doesn't mean what he used to think it did.

* * *

><p><em>Chocolate<em> is his first thought, and the next is _Eduard_.

"You look a little shell-shocked," Eduard comments. He's scowling at the gallon of milk he bought yesterday, the level of which is a lot lower than it should be. "Midterms this week?"

"Yeah."

"Me too. Only three more days, though! And then spring break. About time."

"About time," Matthew agrees, though inwardly he remembers Angie's words about the Bonnefoy family tradition, and he is about seventy percent sure that he will not survive the ten hour drive with only her company. He's about ninety-nine percent sure that, even if he manages to live through _that_ awkwardness, the following week will finish the job.

They chat about their respective exams and Matthew's weeklong on-and-off migraine for a few minutes, and Matthew gives himself reluctant permission to pillow his head on his arms. Eduard passes him one of Gilbert's Hershey kisses just as the main door opens.

"Alfred's back," Matthew moans.

"Yes I am!"

"He's talking about his migraine," Eduard informs him gently. "Granted, I think the two reappearances are connected."

"Aw, lame," Alfred says, obviously not catching the insult, resting a big warm hand on Matthew's back. It feels nice, and Matthew's stomach twists with the pain of not deserving to feel nice. Eduard mumbles something about studying in his room and exits.

"What's wrong?"

The very fact of being asked has Matthew tearing up into the cradle of his arms. He doesn't answer because he knows his voice will break, and he might be gay, but he isn't about to cry in front of anybody. His dignity has little to do with perceived masculinity and everything to do with not bothering other people with his weaknesses. He doesn't want to mope. Take that, Angie.

But Alfred, as always, persists. "Is this another one of your dizzy spells? Did you throw up anywhere?"

Matthew shakes his head.

"Hey, look at me."

Matthew's never been able to say no to him, at least not when it counts, so he tries to swipe away the tears and fails to meet Alfred's gaze. He tries for an awkward smile to break the tension.

Alfred's eyes widen and drop. "Hey," he says, coming closer. "Hey, it's okay. Wanna come to my room? Let's go to my room."

"Stop patronizing me" is what Matthew ought to say, but it would probably come out sounding like a sob, and Alfred is trying to be nice anyway. So he lets himself be led into the room, Alfred's hand at his waist like a shepherd's crook.

The tears come in earnest when the door shuts behind them.

"S-sorry," Matthew gasps, hiding his face. "Jesus, it's not—it's just—stress, it happens, you know, midterms." He fakes a rueful grin.

Alfred envelops him in a warm, dark, close hug. "Don't be sorry," and despite his perplexed tone, the kindness makes Matthew cry harder. "Is it really just stress?"

"If it was more than that, would you really want to know? 'Cause like. Pain shared is pain doubled."

Alfred gives him a weird look. "No. Pain shared is pain halved." And Matthew has never been good at refusing him when it counts.

So Matthew opens his mouth and it all spills out without him actually deciding to say it, it all comes out, how his mother slashed her wrists and how he found the body with the note addressed to Francis, even though nobody had seen Francis in five years and Matthew had been with her all the time, had calmed her from the highs and dragged her from the lows but she didn't really care about him, and how miserable he'd been as a teenager, how stupidly selfishly miserable, and how he'd always secretly worried that he'd end up like her, and how, just two and a half months ago, Francis nearly had, and then Francis had made him admit to being just like them, _had made him say it, _and how Matthew had kept Alfred a secret from Angie because it was awkward timing, and just now she'd told him how similar he was to all the suicidal people they've ever known, people whose blood runs through his veins, and maybe he's cursed, maybe he doesn't even have a choice in the matter, maybe he should just get it overwith while he still has his pride, and how on top of all this he really doesn't want to write those fucking essays on Friday.

* * *

><p>"And now," Matthew blows his nose into one of Alfred's proffered tissues, adding it to the growing pile on the bed, "now <em>you're<em> going to be mad at me."

"Why would I do that?" His tone is certainly a little freaked out, but all things considered, Alfred does an excellent job as an emotional punching bag. (Matthew had tried to relate this, but Alfred only asked, "Why do you think letting you cry on my shoulder is like being punched in the face?" And Matthew sketched a vague response about not wanting to seem mopey as he rubbed his hot swollen eyes.)

"Because I was keeping all of this from you. You kept asking, back in January, you kept asking me what was wrong and if I wanted to talk. And I _lied _and kept _secrets _and boyfriends aren't supposed to do that. People just don't _do _that."

"That's _all _people do," Alfred counters as though it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Everybody hides things. I mean, I wouldn't have expected you to spout off your whole life story the first day we started dating. That would have freaked me out, T-B-H."

"Then you're freaked out now, and you hate me, and you wish I'd just shut up and stop getting snot all over your shoulder."

"Do you want me to be angry with you or something?"

"Yes!"

The admission sounds stupid in the following silence. But Matthew explains himself with, "When you're nice to me, it makes me want to cry."

"Well, then." Alfred pulls him closer, smashing his nose into a tear-damp neck. "If I'm mean to you, will you smile?"

He already _is_ smiling, but Alfred says, "You have terrible hair. I really hate it. And god, your glasses are just so annoying. Like, your prescription is a joke. I hate everyone who wears glasses. And you're really stupid, too. C'mon, Matthew, only five languages? I'm disappointed."

"Stop," Matthew says, voice high and clogged and miraculously chuckling.

"Oh no, I'm not finished with you just yet. I hate your stupid lips"—he pulls away to kiss them—"and your stupid ears"—as kiss to either side of the head—"and I especially hate your stupid _brain _that never wants to give you a fucking _break._" He nestles his nose in Matthew's hair and breathes on his scalp.

After a few moments, Matthew decides that his panic and hurt have been officially contained by the smothering blanket that is Alfred Jones. At least for today. "Okay, I'm feeling better now."

"_All_ better?"

"No. I still have to take exams and then go home with a sister who hates me and a brother who…probably hates me."

He can feel Alfred frowning into the crown of his head. "They don't hate you, Matt. They can't. It's not allowed."

"Don't give me that bullshit about biological imperatives. I've had at least two direct relatives try and off themselves, so you should know that for some reason my family's awful good at dodging certain instincts."

"I didn't mean it like that. I mean that nobody can hate you, Matthew. They just can't. I can't fathom it."

"Oh, well. If the Great Alfred Jones can't fathom something, it obviously can't be true, right?"

"Exactly." He sounds so confident that Matthew almost believes him for a moment. "But…y'know, if you're really that nervous about going back home…"

"Yeah?"

"I mean, I could ask my parents if it's okay for you to come spend the week there. I'm sure they'd be fine with it if I explained that you live up in Canada and don't really want to drive all that w—urk—"

"Thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you."

* * *

><p>That night, after getting confirmation from Al's mom that he is perfectly welcome to spend spring break with them in Virginia, Matthew texts Angie.<p>

_Going with Alfred to VA for spring break. I'm sorry. I figure neither you nor Francis really wants to see me right now. Do you have keys to the car?_

A few minutes later she responds: _yes i do. what the fuck is your problem?  
><em>

He stares at it for a full minute, trying to figure out how to respond. He doesn't do well with confrontation or theatrics, and he can't help but think, _Ha, that's a way you're more like Mama and Francis than me. _But he just texts back, _Will you be okay driving yourself?_

She doesn't respond.


End file.
